Sitar

In the quiet of a London tea‑room,
gold‑shimmering strings reach for the sky,
the sitar sighs, a whisper of sitar rhythm,
a soft roop through harp‑ged channels of night.

Its neck bows like a violin's throat,
high‑fret bows curling, ever‑gentle,
each tune like a midnight cannon fired
in the silence between ticking road‑signs.

Behind the pegs, a mere sea of metal,
the strings hum an ancient raga,—
a lullaby that wraps around the Thames,
as though the river itself would pluck along.

A quiet boot of a spoon‑like plec
shows the maker’s craft in subtle strokes,
laughing at the L’Amour of the four‑string drum
so many a lost Arthur of Moscow could hear.

And in that down‑beat I taste rainbow‑coloured moss,
as if the sitar is a bridge across two worlds—
a bastion of euphoria, a home for so‑many longing hearts,
the instrument that humours both the old barrow and the new Harvester.

Its satiny resonance evokes the Summer lamp,
coasting along an acoustic street,
umbrafilled dreams cut into the chalk, supported by a delta of time,
an echo from Henri no longer near.

Such is the sitar—global, old, bright—
in our Britannia it strums a symphony and people nod along,
remembering that the tune of the soul will always harmonise, even in the face of wordy Brits.