Long fingers and silver rings; that rhythm; that flight
Of forefinger down a string; that tap of the fingertips
Against the golpeador — one of your legs is crossed over
The other and it all disappears but for the music.
That slight frown on your brow as your fingers pick out the tune,
As you lose yourself and find yourself in notes woven
From loose threads; your long hair braided in concentration.
You are created fresh in each percussive moment and you spin
Imaginary dancers away from your hands with a flourish.
That melody; this square; long fingers and silver rings that
Flash and scamper across frets, a note sings from the rosette
And your foot taps, caught up in the wildness of the song,
Untrammelled, untamed, fierce — a moment hangs silent then
Eyes snap and head tossed, that flight of the fingertips, unnamed
And finally still. Long fingers and silver rings lay down the guitar,
And the world returns, changed.
Flamenco
