Oh the groaning
of Groningen guitars,
the twang
of its gutters
and bars.
Rolling of memory,
filling up dreams
of canals
cracking with ice.
Gestapo days
and dead poets
swimming
in music;
the roaring days,
the roaring boys
and gorgeous girls
strummed away,
dancing
out of my eyes
into graveyards
of songs sung.
Spilt notes
and words
weeping for forgiveness
and joy.
KEITH ARMSTRONG
