Like mingling
tree shadows caught in the last of the light,
They sway and
pulse, all lost to the archaic beat
Of wood and tin
and flesh and bone, honed bright.
The fiddler
scrapes low tones to the depths of dark streams,
Hydraulic action
scouring to the veins of the hills,
The voice flies
the soul up into clouds and dreams
And plunges down
through earth until it fills
Dark caverns, far
away from light and love
Where pungent
silence reeks and darkness hides
To strike the
match that brings to life the hope
That we might
find some shining truth inside.
How could I
choose to willingly stagnate
In Luke-warm
water, dyed a garish pink
That drains away
to nothing far too late
To thrill my
heart, or give me cause to think?
No, give me
Celtic strings near ancient fires,
Long nights where
stories jostle in the air,
Where nothing
more is needed than for us
To bring and sing
whatever we can share.
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