The honeyed skin of your violin winks back at the sun
as it calls a mid-summer greeting through sitting-room window.
Glint of topaz catches your eye ... entices you!
You pluck your songstress from where she reclines,
always in arm's reach, held close by,
...and you play!
Her song fills the house: faltering occasionally, always beautiful.
Meandering scales draw a veil over humdrum
domestic cacophony in other rooms:
missing keys; coins lost in sofa cracks;
one-legged poltergeists stealing socks;
and clocks with minutes in such short supply we run anxious, breathless
from one to the next.
But here, before this sun-warmed window, time stands still.