Her Silver Flute Poem by Simon M Hunter

Her Silver Flute



Dusk in Canton. An unctuous rain in smears
Obscures the bustle. Under plastic sheets
The fat-wrapped grills are smoking. 'Pork and beers! '
For dripping patrons. Up from running streets
It quietens later. In the tinny hour
Mosquitos whine their scarlet hunger, twist
Beneath the shallow moon; they hustle, scour
For ankles, shorting contemplation. This
Is inspiration's lonely time; she broods
About the fogs. But sensing ready mind
Entering light on wispy feet, (her hood
Hiding delight) Euterpe, breathful, winds
Her silver flute - affirming poets' right
Unstopping secret sounds of dampened night

COMMENTS OF THE POEM
William Cavanagh 26 May 2009

Being from Canada originally I have lived your poem many times, I like it very much, especially fat-wrapped grills and I might mention those little bastards have made me bleed on more than a few occasions.

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