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Hardy’s father played
by the winter fireside—
tunes his son danced to, shoe leather
tapping on the stone floor.
He listened to the fiddler
at the country dance,
knew the Devil’s music
was a simple reel that whirled
a couple in a ring of fire:
broken vows, scattered rings,
lonely graves on the heath.
He bowed himself
on an odd Sunday, hymns
to a God that belonged
in ruined churches, Gothic windows
without stained glass.
His ballad ended badly
for a country girl with
an ancient name who slept
her last night on a stone older
than time. At the end
of his story, another fiddler
stood at the foot of his bed,
tall, emptyhanded.
“What is this?” he asked
and heard an unknown music
in the sick room air,
a tune without a name.