Folk Night in Hexham

Come to the Folk night my sister said

We’re up in Hexham my sister said

I with my pre-packed, predisposed, preconceptions

could only nod.

But seven forty five in pub couldn’t be bad

Two pints of neck oil would do me some good

On the night, sister at the bar,

No doubt other folkies would not be far.

Washed out denim and rough spun wool,

Caftans, cravats, colour coordination, subject dead.

But no one like it had to be said

Just friendly faces and banter abounding

A dress sense that was nothing short of astounding.

Small lady in the corner with double base, 

creating some rhythm with an elegant grace,

Harmonium melodies recimincent, edge of memory past

Whilst fiddle and whistle there driving the tune fast

With a glint in her eye, off she starts

Recorder in her hand she soars like a lark 

Weaving fingers dance with ease,

Gathering a pace the room comes alive, 

Feet start tapping, eyes they close 

players hypnotic play their prose. 

Reel begts reel onward as they play. 

The harmonium marionette master the tune calling today

The pack races forward like hounds to the bay

Changing key nare missing a beat

Wry grins on their faces as they follow a new street. 

Onward they ride into the night

creative mustangs, the bridle they fight