The Fiddler

Once I spied her, there was no taking my eyes away. As I walked into the barn dance the old country fiddler was playing a soft Gaelic waltz. I stood there in the dark smoky room until my eyes first found hers. She had a tilt to her head, covered in cascades of wavy auburn splendor; her cheeks that rosy tint that cried Irish from all the way across the room; her laughter robust and happy…


We were like old friends the moment we met, and my heart was won within the first hour of the dance. As time slowed weaved its way towards dawn I was lost in the world of her eyes. We talked of life, of love, of all the deep meanings of things, my heart so close in my throat all the while. In the background the fiddler played, the clink of bottles, the swish of the sawdust on that old floor; but all were just shadows as desire built in my heart…


We talked, we caressed, maybe a kiss or two… but dawn found us in the light of reality. Opposite end of the world, she a young rich Irish maiden, and me a rover, not quite yet home from the wars. Some love is never meant to be, I was a drifter, and she was rooted in family. But I knew that from this moment onward that old fiddler’s music would forever haunt my soul… maybe next time…

~ © 2003/2010 David L. Griffith ~
For My Special Lady

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