The Late Great
Reverend Gary Davis
Rev gary davis

It's Cambridge 1971;
my dad's telling me
not to forget this moment:
an old, blind man
shuffles onto stage;
he lays his huge, sunburst guitar
flat on his lap,
so it looks impossible to play.
Then ... dunk-chink dunk-chink dodel-do-do ...
it's cocaine blues
with effortless swing and syncopation
and the crowd whistle and clap.

My dad says
this maybe the last time he performs
and for many years
he reminds me of when I saw
the late great reverend Gary Davis.

And every time,
I wanted to remember,
but couldn't: I was only 3.

Now, it's enough
to hear him
reminding and reminding me
he and I were there.

Tristan Moss

If you have any comments on this poem, Tristan Moss would be pleased to hear from you.