for Chris Spedding
When most eyes still linger
on the singer, he’s picked out
of the shadows into a cone of light.
No other way would he have it:
More silver quiff than white, thank you,
more Cochran, Vincent, defo more Elvis!
Like a thing dug out of a plumber’s sack
his brass slide top-hats the music stand –
no more rummaging in his left pocket
before a solo – slipped onto his third finger:
lightly does it, a touch here, pressure there,
up and down the frets of his Trussart.
No smiling when he’s right up there
at the dusty end, putting his back into it,
lifting the song into elsewhere,
his playing cutting into my bloodstream.
And once he’s ducked free of the stage door,
does the thrum of the road soothe him
or is his music still brimming his head
like mine, as I’m floating home
between street lights up Priory Gardens.
