A lake of wood

and former taut string

gathers underneath her feet.

She plays as relics of other’s

ambition and lost gaze cause

sweeps alongside her,

the fashioned, once polished,

timber falls out of shape

and warps the water

with its sound.

As the bow glides,

ripples of echoes

float towards a distant shore

and in the dream of inspiring hope,

she plays on, each note a siren

calling out to hear the sound

of the violin serenade, to join

in the beauty being carried downstream.

Dedicated To Jo Pue Richards.

Ian D. Hall 2018