Day 28 of Poetry Month 2018

David’s Jig

The fiddler’s fingers pluck the strings
They pull the bow across the notes that tug
A piccolo pips, a tap dancer’s step in time, a drummer’s beat
The Irish jig fills my body and I am transported back
Where my ancestors ploughed the fields, planted potatoes,
And left the land when the famine came
They crossed the Atlantic, some died just as they got to this shore
Some farmed again over here, potatoes still
Never to see their homeland again
Trying to find comfort in the fiddler’s lament and dancer’s step
Along with David’s jig
The fiddler’s fingers pluck the strings
They pull the bow across the notes that tug
A piccolo pips, a tap dancer’s step in time, a drummer’s beat

© 2018 Catherine Woods