Boy with Violin

Wish it was me
he held so tenderly;
his chin – nestling
at my breast;

that Titian nose –
lips – ever so
slightly apart...
his hands, caressing
my neck.

He – my bow;
such a fine length –
perfectly honed.
Honey-rosin lemon,
and slick.

His head, gently
tipped to one side
teasing my open strings,
my ‘A’, ‘D’, ‘E’
and my ‘G’...
could play an air
on it, any
time he liked.

His arms – those
wrists – tanned,
lithe and supple,
as he begins
one long, sustained
smooth stroke.

Largo at first,
and then
accelerando
followed by
an allegro
molto vivace
con espressione;

a blue fire
of passion
burning behind
his eyes
like Chartreuse...
the greenest
of things yellow.