The balladeer

The dull gleam from afar
his National guitar.
Gentle glow of firelight
setting the night alight
to fire and heat.
a beating hand. Gentle

He runs his palm
along her slender body.
The trace of hip
under trembling
finger tips,

A kiss
of strumming fingers.
lingering long on chords
that make her sing,
In joy
Lovers refrain
On a silent night

He knows her strings
and frets,
his sweat like beads
on a smooth brow.
Eyes held closed
in a prayer of prose
and music pouring
from him.

He sings.

~ Dave Kavanagh

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