The Guitarist

The Guitarist

 

Enfolded, resting in his lap,

His body moulds to fit her shape.

Eyes shut, he listens to her sounds,

Invokes the muse to guide his hands.

Holding her with firm embrace,

He plucks and teases out her chords,

Like lover grooming knotty braids.

Fleet fingers putter over wood,

Then shock with smacking palm,

An echoing drum!

A change of mood and gentle touch,

Recall gurgling brook and lullaby.

On bolder note, evoking Spain,

He strums Flamenco’s rhythms strange.

The final chord, languid, sustained,

Lingers, touching somewhere deep:

Memories of Granada and Alhambra nights,

Of castanets and wild heel beats,

The smell of fires and past romance,

A warm embrace and sensuous touch.

 

—By Gabriella Blair—

 

Ojo Del Lago
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