Singing

South West England, Summertime.

The base and 6-string are playing

brightly one Monday afternoon

under a soft watercolour sky;

the base and 6-string are playing.

It’s not clear who started this throb

around tents and camping chairs,

teacups and painted starlight stones

but the base and 6-string are playing.

And, in the darker recess of a plastic tent,

one unwashed Down’s boy sings

across perfectly imperfect repetitive notes,

from a hopeful wet tongue laving for dinner

now the base and 6-string are playing.

Propose a new music, un-housed,

less predictable, in a strange tongue,

held by a deeper fret of purple sound

from a true gut; a resonant truth

laughing like a tambourine

when the base and 6-string are playing.