| THE LORELEI SIGNAL |
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| Written by C.S. MacCath / Artwork by Marge Simon |
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| The Harper |
The music smoothed her face and darkened the strands of her hair.
There was no silence in her life, no space without sound.
No one knew how old she was when she died.
Some said twenty.
Some said ninety.
They said she was born with harp strings twined in her curls,
Milk-sweet music pouring from her tiny fists.
They said a hundred-and-thirty came to hear her play in the cradle
And were still listening with the ears of their grandchildren
When she poured the milk and the sweetness over them
In the thunder and the tears of the heavens at her passing.
But she knew.
She was thirty when she grew young with the music
And the arthritis of her early complacency
Flew away on the delight of her luthier.
She raced against the years
Until her whole life was a blur
Of legato and arpeggio.
After she died, her harp mourned most grievously
When laid in the path of the wind,
But it was polite enough by her empty window,
By her empty bed.
It only mourned a little then.
There was no silence in her life, no space without sound.
No one knew how old she was when she died.
Some said twenty.
Some said ninety.
They said she was born with harp strings twined in her curls,
Milk-sweet music pouring from her tiny fists.
They said a hundred-and-thirty came to hear her play in the cradle
And were still listening with the ears of their grandchildren
When she poured the milk and the sweetness over them
In the thunder and the tears of the heavens at her passing.
But she knew.
She was thirty when she grew young with the music
And the arthritis of her early complacency
Flew away on the delight of her luthier.
She raced against the years
Until her whole life was a blur
Of legato and arpeggio.
After she died, her harp mourned most grievously
When laid in the path of the wind,
But it was polite enough by her empty window,
By her empty bed.
It only mourned a little then.
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