Harp - Diane Scantlebury

Your pale hands hover
Over the harp,
Curved and curled
Like eagles claws,
Paused and poised
As if to strike,
Beautiful melodies
From the strings to draw,

Your head it nods
And then it dips,
Each note trickles
As your fingers slip,
Across the screen
Of vertical wires,
Our cores to melt
Our hearts to inspire.

Diane Scantlebury