The fiddler's fingers bend upon the soundboard

As steady as the hand that draws the bow

The silence before horsehair hits the cat gut

Is the quiet of a heavy fall of snow

'I remember Driscole's shanty', says the fiddler

'the sound of seaboots on the wooden floor

As we played the wind turned round a quarter

And morning found them far from Scotland's shore.'

Their faces are all hid behind the quavers

A thin veneer to paper up the cracks

Breaks like crazing on the varnish

Forgetfulness is what my memory lacks

The fiddler's fingers bend upon the soundboard

As steady as the hand that draws the bow

The silence before horsehair hits the cat gut

Is the quiet of a heavy fall of snow