Digging right into that music mine–
sturdy lady fiddler
in Dingle tonight…

…her back to the window,
her bow towing invisible winds;
untying Celtic knots of song.

They tease the tunes
from out a silence deep and steep
as earth to moon.

Full moon above
a row of rowdy pubs
that ring with song.

They weave from pub to pub,
up the drunken street
that dead-ends at the Catholic church.

Tomorrow’s Easter day–
church will be full.  But this is mass
hilarity right now.

The solemn adult in the moon-
faced baby boy;
the frisky child in the white-haired gent…

His face is creased as if just
unfolded, like a worn roadmap
of many days and miles.

The old gray-haired, sad-eyed
accordion player smiles.
His whole facial terrain lights up.

Some of that sun comes from within him.
Some is reflected from
the smiling concertina-playing lady facing him.

Matron of the music,
she sits erect and proud,
well-lived-in yet unborn.

Midwife of the tune,
unobtrusive, solid–
probably been around the world and happy to be home.

Madonna in the church above–
your blue gown flows down through the boozy streets
into these prayerful pubs.