Inspiration does not come floating by every night, especially nights- that are dark and starless.
They have a gloom and shadowy despair written into them. Yet at times -when the chilled, damp breeze wafts in with a whiff of melancholy joy., haunting notes of a solitary flute, accompanied by nothing but the silence of the night and the laughter of my soul. In the melody I see - A brook tripping along a green hillside, gently , ever so gently, the sparkling wind echoing across the valley covered in flowers, glimpsed in that ever fleeting moment. As the clouds parted below. And even when the flute has ceased to make any more music, the sounds linger on in my soul as if the echoes from the mountain have found an answer in my heart. Then I put pen on paper, to capture a moment of liquid joy, that dropped into my existence on a chilled and starless night as I sat listening to the flute Of Coelho's shepherd boy on the hill side