Richard
Thompson at the Ark, March, 2014
Among orderly rows of gleaming knobs
tufted with gray I spotted one
black beret sported in homage;
only the one.
Two, and I would’ve
sneered fan boys.
Three or more
may well have sent me to the merch
table for my very own one size fits all,
content to listen beneath my black
butter pat to his rapid stage patter
in that sardonic brogue,the one
that doesn’t vanish into thin air
when he sings. Brass tacks driven
that doesn’t vanish into thin air
when he sings. Brass tacks driven
through a Celtic cross on a cold damp
night in the lee of a peat warm pub
night in the lee of a peat warm pub
comes to mind when he plays;
1952
Vincent Black Lighting
in a torrent of notes, thrilling, like watching
a man on a wire working
without a net.
Who
Knows Where the Time Goes, in
dedication to Fairport mate Sandy Denny,
Beeswing
for
those of us who like
our wry leavened with wistfulness.
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