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Crafted by a grandmaster, 
hidden in a velvet-
lined case, 
with Aoide’s 
voice, and 
Aphrodite’s shape.

The varnish is scratched 
and the dark timber chipped.
A bridge no longer a bridge, 
but a prisoner.
The bow makes the strings 
sing, and calloused hands make

the music dance.
And the crowd is on 
the edge of their chairs,
until the very last 

This poem was highly commended for Poetry Object 2019

'There are many poems about instruments I have read but this one was so beautifully crafted and shone with originality. There’s curiosity and style and an underlying darkness that intrigues me. ‘A bridge no longer a bridge, / but a prisoner’: the way the poet gives the instrument a special power beyond its use, making it something extraordinary.'
~ Emilie Zoey Baker, Judge, Poetry Object 2019