It was worth it, to drive through rain on a dark night,
my old eyes earnestly searching for worn-out road markings
in our worn-out country.

To arrive early and be welcomed at a place of music
where we have heard so much creativity and originality
over the years.

And there was a sublime forging of words and music.
A telling of stories that touched all our hearts.
A flow of notes that still left space for the journey of words
that she had found in her early mornings.

We were buried in this and revelled in it,
needing to hear it again and again so as not to miss a word of it,
a note of it.

Simple it sounds, but not so. Every crafted word and musical
sweep was thought of and loved with such care that a mother can give
and a father can support.

And yet, there was a freedom there.
The words and music came from a place of release, not captured
but nurtured in a stream of memories and understandings.

We would go again, though the rain poured, the lines faded,
to hear such a blessing of natural art.
But we have it in our hands now and in our hearts,
to listen again, and again.