With harp, Olwen hears the old songs,
the ancestor songs. Remembers
every note of the polka they danced to,
her grandparents not yet married,
the music that sweeps through them
before and after the photograph.
Translates the language of pulse,
of blood, of her own beat.
Pupil relaxes from the gold, from her harp,
shadows slinking like broken animals.
Hears crack of wing resound, a distancing,
the ancestor door flung open.
Song pleads keep every string alive–
Olwen obeys, mouthing words
carried by the golden birds
she tames with her fingers.
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