I hear a song strummed softly after dark,
Mellow chords blended with paint and
Plasterboard into indistinctness,
Stroked free by hands I do not know.
A tune I have not heard before,
Which holds a memory of
The balm of a summer’s dusk
At the riverbank; ice clinking
Against the smooth cool glass
Held in the hands I do not know
As the day fades into blissfulness
And is lost to all but this memory.

How strange that this fragile music,
So vulnerable as to be frayed into nothingness
By the light touch of the merest breeze,
Can yet lift my broken soul to the heights
On wings as bright and fleeting as a firefly.

The music grants a moment’s gift,
That I should be allowed to share
The memory of another’s small happiness,
An instant’s contact with another life
Which might have been my own
Before, in silence, I remain alone.