Flute

The silver tongue of air unheard,
a slender bow that sings in still,
where crystal notes in quiet reverie
are coaxed from a luthier’s dream.

Its wooden heart, a gentle sigh,
a breath of spring in winter’s hush,
reveals a colour bright, not cheap,
but warm, like summer’s breath at dusk.

With bored holes the flutes whisper,
soft as a lover’s secret vow,
echoing through the quiet hall.

The instrument, a master’s tongue,
tugs at the string of memory,
and all the world is briefly,
in a single breath of sound,
caught in the glint of a flute’s gleam.