With tortured brow she tucks the violin
On a soft violet collar under her chin,
Laying her cheek like a child’s
On the black cold ebony;
She gazes at the bow gliding from frog to tip
As if she sees the melody
Singing from the wood
Take form and grown into the room,
A presence of dimension and grace
That settles like a friend in the gloom
And softens the frown from her face.
An undated work in the vicinity of letters from Robert and other poems from the early 1970s.
Patrick Meadows 1934 – 2017.