We left in a hurry
and I had to leave
my solid-wood mahogany and spruce guitar.
They said to bring only what we could carry
and it would have taken both my arms
to protect it from knocks and scrapes as I would a baby –
for it too was made with love and in the belief it would last forever.
Now I’m more sorry
than I should say, to know I will never hold it again
and pluck the bass string and feel the low hum
travel through me, earthing me.
At night I crouch awake and worry
about the fire that melts and blackens and harries to ash
all the carefully crafted truths we once lived by
and which made life beautiful.
