How it was…

arriving here
I stand awed
at rows of violins

the smells of
timber and rosin
and a young grandfather
in a cardigan

with horsehair on his workbench
he handles your cello familiarly
and sends us for a walk

"the light might be good"
he says and we head
"to the end of the road"

where the afternoon's squall
has washed the sky
but left suds
billowing on all the hills

and where one tree
gapes a fishy yawn
while draping bark
like a silk salesman

and another
stands among the long shadows
like Mao's Last Dancer
in shapely flail

in this whiskey light
their death is beauty
and the waning day
feels fresher
than the morning

we turn back
cold bones in tow
to the workshop's
warm hug

and the drive home
in fuggy silence
under a cat's eye moon