The Fiddlers Last Note

There was a time between worlds
when the grass swept its way in tune,
old men with fiddles, their fingers gnarled,
slapped, their grimy hands on thighs
and lifting up their bows saluting
as a humming in the air begins.
A clapping, slow to start the women
raise their skirts, showing knees
rough skinned yet still with dimples
twinkling as their feet start tapping
hands outstretched to hold the children,
faces nutmeg from the long hot summer,
gap toothed and smiling,  sticky smears
of lemon flavoured caramel cooked
from pots that sway above a fire.


She has stoked up all these memories,
along with fresh baked bread and spices;
nostalgic scent that will always haunt
and captivate as she walks past
memories that swing on wooden gates.
Apples stewed until their white flesh
becomes a rosy blush and melts
upon the tongue, windfall sweet.
Boys and girls at war and then again
making melodies and stories up,
exaggerated tales of ne’er do well,
until the  narrator fills the valley
his booming theatrics making each
more blood curdling and pungent
as her bare toes cling tighter to the turf.

She recalls trestle tables bowing
with the weight of summer harvest
and men’s discourse as they bang
to emphasise a theory or just a point,
comparing harvest of years gone by
as rudely women laugh, their hair
springing free from scarves, they
tried to hide the sweat of preparing
such  feasts as this to gorge upon.

The way, the trees turned from
gold to black and leaves that
ruffled, whispering in the dark.
Little girls hide faces in mothers laps
while fathers with glass in hand
tap with feet, each a bar or so behind.
until at last there is only one fiddler
who plays his solitary notes, an
eerie wail that punctuates the sound
of plates gathered and straggling
groups wending ways on paths
that swallow them up.
She feels the strains, the
waning songs and takes
her cinnamon flavours,
sprinkling nostalgia
into warm bowls,
the wood smoke spiralling,
vapour trails of thoughts
over spilling into her dreams.






Poetry by Elle The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 525 times
Written on 2010-05-02 at 14:52

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shells
I felt I was at some gypsy celebration from long ago, your story drew me in to the sights and smells and kept me there to the end. loved that line "faces nutmeg from the long hot summer."
2010-05-03


NicholasG
Windfall sweet is true magic. How could something windfall sweet be anything but perfect Unbottleable and intransigent, to be had there and then :-)
Thank you Elle. I enjoyed this.
xox Nick
2010-05-02