Before The Clouds Move Over
Riding his purple Harley Davidson
At a thoughtful controlled speed
Along the dusty winding mountain top road
Not long now, till he’s at his sanctuary.
The power of music still revving
In his inner voice, his heart and soul
Half thought out melodies
A musician that’s born, not made.
All was quiet as the bike cooled down
He sat in his favourite spot
Looking down onto the lake
No distractions here.
A tune he knows by heart, now plays in his head
His lips mime the words
This tune he started working on a year or so ago
But he keeps coming back to
Because something is still missing
He still can’t leave this alone.
The sun’s rays interrupt his composing
Shadow of the bike now in front of his feet
Then the birds from nowhere swoop down low
Heading for the lake-side trees
They start a melody so beautiful, no musician has ever matched
But then they argue
And the tune is lost amongst aggravated insults.
You can’t force things
There’s no timetable for creativity.
Strumming the truth
Before the clouds move over.
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