by Gerard Lewis-Fitzgerald
My mind was transported to the neck of his guitar
and there it hovered, as quiet and reverent
as the layers of varnish and submissive frets,
deeply penetrated by eons of
Iberian mystique,
watching his fingers consumed by their own fire,
feasting on each escapade of wild, scampering notes,
each finger-fall popping fuchsia buds of orange passion,
whereupon I heard mothers pleading for their children,
I saw awesome kingdoms rise
and fall
and tasted revolution acrid
on my tongue;
I heard a people whose resurgent faith
could fashion sacred runes
from stones on the slopes of the Pyrenees.
Suddenly the melody took hold of my hand
and bid me run crazed through narrow streets
in a blur of cream stucco and white and red
and a silvery scintillation of brain chemicals
and the terror-stricken roll of bovine eyes;
many were gored in the pit of love’s excitement,
as was I, impassioned by the music.