Friday, 6 March 2009


These notes do not flash

They do not skitter

Spiderwise from the fretboard

The hands that wring them, calloused

And cracked from living

Know more than simply practise

They linger as a lover’s should

Knowing the curves of neck and body

How to wring the weeping cry

These notes know smoke and darkness

Speak of years in bar rooms

And of times spent before that

Sharing their knowledge of suffering

Hard earned, kept beneath smiles

A legacy held well disguised

Except here, in moments given

To changing wood and wire to more

A fingerborn alchemy, blended things

Heart, and fire, and hard worked notes

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