First, she unwraps:
the silk, an autumn-coloured paisley scarf
wound ’round beak and neck,
then pressed about the creviced curve of body
nestled in a velvet green cocoon.
She points and names:
prosaic back and body, tailpiece, quickly lost
in a frisson of peg box, purfle, scroll and saddle,
and carved italic slashes whose length and breadth
combine, define the sound.
She lifts it out:
fingers tune strings strung taut
by the bridge that sits astride the belly.
She searches for, then finds, corrects
sounds that are foreign to my ears.
Watching My Mother Play Her Violin