The Man with the Earring

There was someone,
some time, somewhere.
It was warm, inside,
as any lover’s breath,
and a five-string guitar
wove patterns in the air.

Shadows moved
across his face
like passing clouds
as his fingers coaxed
that soulful loom
with small, blue notes;
quavers – crotchets,
woven on a stave.

Outside in the yard –
the sky bled blackberry
into midnight-indigo.
Raindrops thrummed
a red, tin roof – fireflies,
caught in a marmalade jar,
and moonlight pooled
in a saucer on a sill.