True Story

In the gathering dusk I beached my canoe
The beach was shallow and muddy, with a tiny stream running through
From the waterfall that rattled softly in the distance.
Only the birds declared their existence.

Houses ringed the bay and boats sat inside it
But no human soul moved.

Slowly I was aware of music.
Softly a piano crept from a house perched on the cliff.
Slow chords trickled out;
Exquisitely sad, longing and lonely
But never hopeless, and somehow mystical.
I planted my paddle in the sand and stood enchanted.
And I wondered that I would never know the player who gave me such intimacy:
A song I had never heard before,
Nor will again, I feel.
Suddenly it stopped, and I was cold, and wet, and alone.

'A poem is never finished, only abandoned' - Paul Valery