We sat quietly, expectantly. Grey hair, white hair, sparse hair. Shoulders rounded with weight and years. He walked onto the dais, guitar in hand. Black hair, white shirt, blue jeans. Neat beard, easy smile.
What must he think, I thought. Row upon row of old people, in between elevenses and lunch, tummies gurgling with custard creams and weak coffee.
A wan June sun flickered some colour onto the stained window, behind the rood screen, and he began.
It was a gentle, intricate journey. A journey of butterflies, dances, faith and death.
The melodies lifted into the air with an almost subdued passion, and we were riding on the strings, the chords, the tremolos, under the spell of his hands.
And as he played The Death of an Angel, we tangoed with him, up, into the vault.
Yesterday we attended a concert and listened to an hour of wonderful Latin American guitar music played by Morgan Szymanski. His home town is Valle de Bravo, in the State of Mexico, where the lake, rivers and waterfalls attract the migration of the Monarch butterfly, (according to some the origin for the Day of the Dead festival).
Cardboard scabs, a sea of silk, Or some such imagery of that ilk. The box implies a fruity touch Transforms it from this tasteless mulch. A muffled hammer in my head Reminds me of a fitful bed. The mirror says, ‘go get some rest,’ ‘cos I’m not looking picturesque.
Lustred jewels and promises draw our eye, Halt us in our tracks. Spellstopt by words we foolishly took for wisdom. They’re no more than paste baubles. A cheap trick. Yank on the fraying string and watch them skittering down the path one by one.