Music across the water,
that's how it is – a sound
which skirts the smooth docks.
The way home attended
by arpeggios, vamped chords.
That’s how it is:
the old bloke on the fiddle,
the others on flute and drum.
There’s music tonight
across the water.
And that sense of playing,
a sense of playing out …
The spittle wiped
from the mouthpiece.
Everything might be otherwise
without the need for translation.
