for Emel Jurd

It strikes me as odd
the way even the voice
ages - like a vessel of water balancing on a table's
and in its fine broken sounds, fragility,
simple and pure.
There was a day you rang
and we talked for an hour
about the pros & cons of obscurity; about the dangers
of our personal lives when
'telling', but I said Don't worry, your soul
is a lyric, explain it all as art when asked
(they will think you're teasing!) and a time
might come when curiosity will lead them back
to whatever sparked them off
and they'll say
She sang!' (Our own sweet reason!)
I remember hearing you sing -
I still listen,
and there remains no familiarity,
just music
protecting me through this vast unprotected space, your long
white hands around my head, your song
a garland...

Margie Cronin

If you've any comments on this poem, Margie Cronin would be pleased to hear from you.