Hands In Thought
HANDS IN THOUGHT
Paganini, with his bony, white hands,
In the graveyard,
Playing for the dead
What a thought!
All that cold, weathered stone,
The few leafless trees,
What a diseased sort of scene
And the great Italian violin virtuoso,
So thin, so hook nosed,
Courting Satan
So they thought
Hands of old grandfather disturb,
Reminding the hour,
Pointing up
For sure, the fiddler,
Weird, stick of a man,
Was headed south,
Or so they thought
And so this crazy fiddler thinks,
At his late hour,
Hands hanging limp
Rage?
No
Hands clasped in prayer?
No
Just a chuckle
At the outrageous thought
Of being no more
Dave Austin
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