A dappled light beam spills upon the floor
and highlights lines of wooden tongue and groove.
I raise my   student violin to my chin.
Practice, Practice, how else does one improve?

My bow draws slowly down across the strings
as callused fingers coax out mournful sighs.
I work alone;no audience attends
the movement ends in silence, not applause.

My grandfather used to play the violin
at celli dances in and around Strabane
He was noted for his strong clean tenor voice
and how the violin wept at his command.

In later life he had a battered Atlas
in which he'd peruse maps of foreign lands.
He never travelled  ten miles from his home.
Eventually arthritis took his hands.