Rory's Strat did cluck
and bevel sound tapped into
whirring curls note curds
raised in tufts rotating honed
the resonance of guitar wood left out
in the weather's bad temper
on end for days on end
is what some say slowed down his blues
smoothed / soothed until he held
a fist of mid-tone hum clutched firm
then punched against the air
at intervals he eased / released
whatever it was inside
and what if every sound we ever made
               is never really lost
but fades forever imperceptibly halved
until it forms part breath part nudge of light
                                                 the twinkling plain
                                                   a bay of amber ships
                                                      glimpsed through
                                                   a pale new-born
                                                rolling oily lens
set halfway up this huge glass
hemmed by winter's last grip
and spiked with headlights on the ridge
they burn then turn then fade ellipsed

Valverde         March 2009