The Fiddler and His Lady

He made his fiddle a lady
in the exhaled haze of a Dingle pub

As the drums and strums 
danced the clack of Keryl's spoons
the old men scratched their violins
But not Maguire's lady

She cooed and sighed 
as his chin so gently rested on her body 
His peaceful touch drew across her
like a warm breath through hair of silk
Then the rogue Jim made her weep

til she bit us with her pain
and a drip of tears seasoned the Guinness

But he knew his lady so well
The instant he smiled and her hopes took wing  
She laughed like he'd never made her grieve 

Her chorts so loud they drew a curious boy 
who jigged on the stains of the floor
She giggled at the jests of Macguire's bow 
and the boy floated above the hardwood 
his feet occasionally tapping the floor

At closing time 
Jim laid his lady in her worn velvet bed 
and locked her away 
as if she only wanted to sing to him
He hugged her under his arm
protecting his rare lady from the damp chill
of the Irish summer night.

J. Kevin Wolfe