The strings
are
for the winds,
winds blowing
in from New Brunswick,
sometime in the 1850s
when my great-great grand (giant)?
father cut down
a tree and carved
a fiddle, the way
he remembered
one in Ayrshire.

And I gave it
three coats
of varnish,
bought a bridge
and strings
and now it
hangs in
the dining room
turning gently
in draughts,
nineteenth century
fingers
brushing an echo
of a Scottish air.

by Douglas Lochhead

Douglas Lochhead
19th Century
New Brunswick, CANADA
© 1984, Fiddlehead Poetry Books. All Rights Reserved.

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