The guitarist wrote songs about the
names of rivers known from tradition
but where he had never been.
On the Thames, the Danube, the Sligo we go
on the Mississippi and the Sacramento
up the Nile, down the Tigris and the slow Orinoco.
The drummer composed poetry from
the inveterate and ribald screeching
of gulls on the pier on the weekend.
His sister the violinist cooked up soup
out of tones not all the freshest
stirred with the bow, simmered slowly.
The bees in the lilacs
the spiders in the lavender
re-enact with frantic
faithfulness the founding
of the first hive, the first nest
the original dance of life
From the gut and throat of the sax
and the saxophonist’s funny face
flows a narrative in melody about
possibilities lost and embraced.