Listening to Blues by Carole Martin
Clap out the music; stiff-jointed into air
Like pigeons’ wings, yet just right
To keep the tune afloat.
The blues on the guitar is sweet
As new earth, live with birds, the scent
Of bluebells, an aching spring lament.
In the dim firelit dark I sit
Tapping the beat, and find out
The smell of the old man’s sweat
And see, amazed, my hand
Stretch out to touch his hand.
So the completed phrase
Perfectly comes to rest.
The blues falls to an end
His hand touches my hand