It was to be a poem with a banjo in it;
a knocked-over barrel of apples of a poem;
a New Orleans rag from 'Auld Reekie';
but, all I could remember of your banjo
was the wall it hung on: black – a mural of Belsen:
like uncanny constellations;
and I wondered if it's still there,
hale, and lurking below layers of wallpaper;
a comfortable Constable;
and a flight of ducks.
that flight path of madness.
the tune lingers -
the stretched skin
note: Auld Reekie – ancient name for Edinburgh