My first, long coveted,
I won you picking strawberries
that back-breaking summer.

Rising before the sun
to put the hours in,
I strived to earn your love.

Constant companion, always
in reach and ready, you gave
my stumbling tongue its voice.

Your patient tutelage
coached stained fingers to
coax songs from eager strings.

Alas, in time, I took
your grace for granted, strayed
and put you down.

Once vibrant, stashed and silent
forgotten, muted, still,
abandoned to the loft.

Strings began to rust. Dust
deepened, arthritis curled,
and cracks defiled your face.

Time passed.
Others came and went.

I have my own lines now,
a turning tide of hair,
and vault of memories.

Is it true that age
brings wisdom? Perhaps.
Nostalgia turned me back.

Curiosity led me
to pick you up once more,
wipe off the dirt and wonder…

Could you be resurrected,
know life beyond the loft,
made new and soar once more?

New pick-ups, strings and scratchboard,
chips filled in, a touch
of paint to make amends.

Forgiveness sought and offered,
your arms around my neck,
we dance as one again.

This poem’s taken longer that I thought it would to pull together. I was given some money in May for my birthday and thought I’d use it to try and restore my first electric guitar. She was in a dreadful state, and I was a bit anxious that it was a lost cause. Much to my joy, it went so much better than expected, and picking her up and plugging her in the first time was like meeting a long lost friend.
(28.07.24)

© Ben Quant 2024