Listening to Classical Guitar

There’s a telegraph wire beyond my garden,

a heavy black line drawn against the sky.

To my right it meets a pole, then heads off

in a new direction, passing behind my right shoulder.

Hanging on that line, an orange sun is contemplating a dip

in the sea; the pillar of light on the water says so;

beyond that, the hills behind Killybegs are a series

of grey shapes, shadows doused in a pink haze.

I am listening to Plinio Fernandes’ classical guitar;

each note followed by a space, that permits it to fall,

to settle a moment in my head; and then there’s the sun’s

hesitation above the water; and then I spot the pidgeon

on the telegraph wire, listening to the guitar. I notice

that he is connected to the sun, the other side of the pole;

and the sun to the sea; sea to the hills; and myself;

all, somehow, immersed in this music.