Waiting for S to arrive reminds me of
Godot,
for S adheres to muso-time, an endlessly entertaining
fact -
if you are not being subjected to it.
So pernickety regarding metronome time,
yet when dealing with any old tick tock
of the clock interval,
Time takes on the characteristics
of a prima donna - stretches, curves, bends,
even refracts - becomes ad libitum
at one
with S's own creative determination.
Her mind floats untethered,
lost
in a particularly lush leitmotif landscape
being currently cropped, meticulously noting
each grain
in a plump-eared refrain.
She may seem to be dream-drowsy watching
the dock, she is not.
She is Elvish-attentive to the plock
of lake water notes on glockenspiel pier.
Plo-CK, p-LO-ck, PL-ock
dock intones
as she swells the concerto with violin vibrato
capturing spirited, fish-leaping light.
I see her shy smiling in my mind
as she leans haphazardly over railing
immersed in the shushing of red river gums
that have fallen obligingly over,
so that waterfowl might rest, virtually undetected
and the liquid-stirring leaves
like innumerable gumnut baby* fingers
can trail and giggle at the cool, verdant trickling,
oh, how can one
pay Old Spoil Sport Time any heed
when the whole world is thrillingly      fluting      drumming      vibrating?

*May Gibbs wrote an illustrated a series of charming children's books. She is much loved in Australia.