Somewhere
on the fretboard
is a note
only you could play,
hidden
At the gates
a queue is forming;
angels in black,
sideburns, gloved hands,
fingers pointing
straight at you,
screaming
Bernard! Shane! Alvin!
Read about Alvin Stardust here
Dinner is served
in an unreal house.
At the table
no-one speaks.
Somewhere else;
a place is set.
Another family waits
for you
to come through.
Read about Lynda Bellingham here
Time, master of
tides,
turns down the
guitar,
the organ;
leaves just bass,
drums,
and the mellow
string section
of your voice.
Read about John Holt here