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Visit from the Highlands

We played hooky, the music-man and I,
dodging waves coming rough
against the Pacific shore.
He said it’s cold in Scotland,
the sea never sleeps
and he walked the sea-shelf
many times with whiskey
in a flask, moon-light painting
silver streaks on his hair.
Kinder in person than in print,
he opened doors for me,
shared my slice of carrot cake,
told me stories meant for grandchildren.
We must have kind faces,
for people smiled as we past,
deep in conversations that could not
be told in rhythms or in rhyme,
or perhaps it was the sight
of two old people, walking
arm in mental arm.
Later, my piano sang as his fingers
raced across the keys; he told me
it was out of tune.
“I already knew that,” I confessed.
He left on a Sunday,
the traditional day of rest,
his Scottish footfalls
light on my heart’s sand.

2 Aug 07

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charming. A few nits:
L9: doesn't fit-- moonbeams silver the air; they don't look cheap.
L 20: delete "mental"
Toss L 25.
lift 26+27 with a comma after confessed ( L 24)

Line 10 raises so many luminous questions and possibilities.
Lovely poem and setting.
 — banditfemme

Thank you, good comment about the streaks.  Revisited that.   Not sure I want to delete mental, as we are not physically walking arm in arm, but I will add a comma.  
 — unknown

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