Hiraeth

A single word hangs, shimmering, in the late afternoon light.
A note, sung softly, chimes like a bell calling the faithful
To worship and revere a god that lives between dry pages.
A dust mote dances, and invites the watcher to join it in
A reel to the music of time.
And all the time, there is no time, but there is all time,
And time is measured by breaths, longer for the ones
Not taken, and the soft sigh of the falling dusk echoes
Across the faded gilt of the sunset's dregs.
No waves can carry back to the shore the hopes
That were cast overboard, no swift flowing tide can
Recapture the dreams that spun and wove a
Delicate web of promise.
Only the land is eternal, and yet it is not,
Only the seas can hold the tears that are cried
And yet they cannot, for all that is infinite is
Truly finite, and is held in the palm of my hand.

(c) 2ndwitch, 28/10/16

The Musician.

You walked into the world, all those years ago,
With the promise of a glorious future, success,
Fame and adoration tempting you on and on.
You opened your mouth and sang, and people
Listened, and your voice had the power to entrance.
You ran your fingers over the strings, and
Allowed a molten gold web to be woven, and
Cast it across your audience, and saw them fall in love.
As the years passed, you moved from band to stage
To band, to studio, to band again and again, each time
Choosing a small part of yourself to reveal to
Anyone who was listening.
Slowly the life became harder, the audiences smaller,
The bookings less prestigious, and the appeal of
The things that blanked the mind grew ever stronger,
The beer, the wine, the wacky baccy, and
Late nights and smokes began to take their toll.
And so, eventually, you walked back out of the world,
With the promises not fulfilled, and broken now,
Disheartened, your muse defeated and laid to rest.
But just some of what you did lives on.
Some of your work will never die.

© 2ndwitch, 17/01/16

(My thanks to the owner of the guitar, who probably does not even know I took the photo, for the image.)