The King of the Delta Blues

 

The hellhounds always trailed him –

for that’s the drift of legends. 

Fuelling spooks with shots

of malt, he wailed out blues

across the Delta.

 

Between us now the record

crackles bleakly, his scratchy voice,

a conjured ghost, sings clear

as barrelhouse belles who fleeced him

strut across my sight.

 

In the rattling dives he played

to write-offs, whores and gamblers

I love that simmering dark,

yet more than this

admire his need for style –

 

the months he spent alone

trying out a bottle neck

until, in a few brief takes,

the chords sliding down his frets

were a train’s thunder on tracks.