Peggy Seeger

At Kala Sangam in Bradford

late Sunday afternoon, one singer

sits on a hard chair waiting for the other

to take the stage, tune her guitar to

the required key before saying, “Hello

Ladies and Gentlemen.” There are

moments, in a life, that linger.

These two beloved women

stand on linoleum and talk

only briefly, about the songs maybe,

how they endure against the grain

of progress, how they stand up and fight

against the worst, the forever fascists,

time after time.

The folk singer’s eyes, alive with your

knowledge, as if you’d ridden trains together,

danced every reel, drank black coffee

in Buffalo, Oklahoma City, Oxford.

If you could, you’d link arms, climb

up the hill, to the Shish Mahal, break

the family bread.

As the room empties, the chairs scraped

away, there are goodbyes, the gentle touching

of soft hands. You turn and walk across

the room, smiling a secret never known.

At this exact moment, I knew it wasn’t the first

time I’d seen your face, but understanding

its beauty like never before.