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The pupil is twelve, attractive withdrawn |
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In a midnight blue school uniform |
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Lips just a little too full for her face |
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Distant eyes full of space |
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In her posture no trace of coquette |
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No defiance |
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She fingers the frets looking forlorn |
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Crossing her legs where her tights have been torn |
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Starts as her mother comes into the room |
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And the afternoon grows still |
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And her mother feels a chill |
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Shivers and buttons her coat |
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I gently correct the curve of her back |
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And open her book in the now empty flat |
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At the classical piece I've had her prepare |
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And her arms are bare as she plays |
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And I draw back behind her ear |
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A few strands of hair gone astray |
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She shows me her bracelet, the lesson is done |
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I turn it around between finger and thumb |
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We sit face to face and it seems to me that |
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Her face is the face of a cat |
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And touching the place where her breasts will be |
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I press my hand flat |
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She comes into my lap, I turn her around |
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Her hands clasp my neck and her feet skim the ground |
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Her skirt travels up under my palm |
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But the pupil sits looking so calm |
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As if listening to the distant sound of a burglar alarm. |
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What happened next it's hard to recall |
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The guitar lesson left no traces at all |
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Now from afar it seems to resemble |
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A strange composition in oil |
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Of a man, a guitar and an innocent little girl |
