Little Mysteries Poem by Gerard Smyth

for Philip King

After a few false starts, the harmonica player
picks up a bluesy melody or slow air,
a cracked tune or one that was lost
and found, borrowed and returned
but never a burden to the one who carries it.
Maybe Bless the Weather or Sweet Little
Mystery or something more traditional
from a place that never runs out of rhythms
in the hills of Clare or Mississippi.



And blessed are the song-makers -
first the forgotten ones who sing no more
and now the troubadours of a new century chorus.
Theirs are the melodies that wander the earth,
from festival to festival
in those gardens where thousands pitch their tents.
Or that bit of a tune left in the air
when bow and fiddle are laid to rest
and the singer sits down, dry mouthed.