The thin musician | Salt Spring Island
by
John Selby

 

The thin musician

rowed the placid lake
slid easily away
the water's tongue

rippling
away from him
incommunicado:

no reflections now;
even when the sun
was setting he barely
cast a shadow.

His hands had shaped the air
to capture sound from string
and wood and when the wind
arose he stood to catch the ring

of the mountains
direct the movements
of the clouds
get closer to the sky

make a flourish and bow
for the grandest of entrances.

He twirled around
in the canoe
surrendered his baton

with sleight of hand. The sword
slips back in the lake.

Isadora goes up
in centrifugal flames.

---

Salt Spring Island

Oh, Salt Spring Island I wonder
if your stream runs this summer.
I remember your sunbleached pastures
lined with broken fences
the shine of sun unbroken by cloud
the water around the isle still
unbroken by sound

I hiked down to the shore
on paths of light, leaf and stone
passed by crumbling barns
packing dreams in with drugs
carrying my karma
wrapped up in my clothes.

On the flute I brought
I made up a melody
I still remember:

On Salt Spring Island
people loved to live
had loved and died by
the water which echoes
this music we make.

On Salt Spring Island
I had to follow darkness and stumble
on stumps of totem poles looming up
on the shaft of night.

On Salt Spring Island
I saw stars all around in a clearing, clusters
of jewelled pinpoints of light spread out
before me, an array of magical sights.

Oh, Salt Spring Island
the song you made me play
comes back to me:
Your singing pastures and echoing
waters are sounding still.

I had to leave your sacred ground
to live in town with traffic,
cats with coins on their collars wearing hats.

I had to abandon your swelling solitude
in search of jazz babies
coming on to warm spotlights.

I had to leave you, Salt Spring Island
because I did not belong
to your unblemished land
among your ghosts, your sudden storms
and your evanescent melodies.

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