Songsmiths
We ply the old trade,
and wandering from one far place
to another down
the stream of true song,
we seek to find love's turned key
in the locks of life.
The dream child dances
beside the bed we have made
for our hope, where we
lie down in moonlight
after the last song is sung,
after the smith has
banked back all the fire.
February 28, 2010 10:01 AM
Christopher, thank you for breaking my latest dry spell. It's so sweet when the rain comes.
ReplyDeleteWanderer
My lute cracked
when I saw the memory
of your beloved face
echoed in the river.
She still plays the same old songs,
but now with a rasp,
a smoke-and-gravel hue
like the grief of flamenco.
Our dream child
is a tattered maid now, her lullaby
twisted by our fate
as a basket-weaver binds the rushes
that grow along the riverbank
in weeping, boggy strips,
the low lament
of the Soleá.
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