He might have lost his teeth, but his hair wasn’t grey
When he walked into the bar, he might have lost his way,
He took a roundish bag and put it gently on the ground,
It could have been a baby the way he set it down;
He ordered up a pint, he looked tired and old,
But there was a story just about to unfold.
He sipped the foaming cream and sucked his missing teeth,
His eyes were dark and listless, like everyone you meet.
Then the music started, the boys began to play,
Violins, mandolins, a squeeze box, astonishing array.
O’Carolan, enchanted wafted out across the street,
For here the ones were coming, here they all would meet,
Lovers of a remedy for hard and stony lives,
For music is the cure in almost everybody’s eyes,
He turned, his eyes were shining and a smile crept out,
He opened up his bag a bodhran he did flout.
He might has lost his teeth, his hair wasn’t grey,
But his fingers knew the rhythm on that sacred day.
For the music was inside him whirling to run on,
He caught and neatly tricked it – tied it to his drum,
We all watched on in silence as he the magic spun.
Bones he had beside him, polished and refined,
He placed them in his fingers the magic rhythm found.
The music rose and fell the singer sang his song,
The Irish way was burning inside everyone.
He might have lost his teeth, his hair wasn’t grey,
But his fingers knew the rhythm on that special Sunday.
Caroline Baldock © 2018