She must be what, in her thirties now
but in my mind she will always
be nineteen, maybe twenty, she
will always be standing outside
the boarded over windows of a storefront
on High Street, most likely a mauve
nubby skirt reaching just over the top
of what might be Doc Martens, black
cardigan over a black turtleneck
her fiddle tucked under her chin,
the bow drawn back, dreaming
I imagine of someday being
on a real stage, not the evening
pub crawl in Galway city
where there is always music and
a good fiddler can always find
someone who will spot them
a beer as for a song well played.
Perhaps she is a mother now, perhaps
a doctor, then a student busking for rent
her food, her studies now complete.
But in Ireland music is woven
into your DNA and there is no getting
away from it even if you want to.