The Fiddler by Kenneth C Steven
The old man
Seemed somewhere else.
Now and then he left sentences
Half-written in the air, his eyes
Drifted away, and he did not hear.
He was not there – he listened.
At night he trailed out over the moor
Came back with the peewits at dawn
When the moon was a fingernail, the light
Sluiced clear over the lochs. His fingers
Twitched with things, living creatures,
That leapt, danced, played;
Edges of song that came in on the wind,
Huge gusts that he translated,
Tied down to sounds, songs, notes,
And brought at last from his fiddle
Like children, like wide-eyed children.