Dreaming of My Father's Violin

Dreaming of the smell of my fathers violin

rosin and dust

sharp tang of a spare string

silent, I run my fingers 

across the blue velvet

On his desk

the waxy slice of agate that lay

long after his coffee mug was gone

strips of gold and umber

a tiny crystalled gap

between the layers

dawn creeps slow along 

strips of grey and cream

backing the fading twinkle of horizon lights

the house still asleep

on my computer

I play a boys choir 

singing christmas carols

even though it is March

while, out my dark window, 

a bus trundles lonely down the street