I loved to carry <br />Her violin case, its nose <br />In air, its back end <br />Nice and heavy, the balance <br />Factored in and factored out. <br /> <br />Every time she placed <br />Her two thumbs to the two snibs <br />And opened the lid <br />She couldn’t help a quick frown <br />(Disguised pleasure?) as she checked. <br /> <br />Then her brow would clear <br />And the sun disc of her face <br />Tilt up and brighten <br />At the tap of a baton, <br />At the tip of a baton… <br /> <br />In the baize-lined case <br />Emptied of the ingrown jut <br />Of the fiddlehead, <br />A lump of ancient resin <br />And a dirty chamois cloth. <br /> <br />The conductor’s hands – <br />Big and out of proportion <br />To his skinny wee <br />Professor’s body–always, <br />she said, “interested” her. <br /> <br />Fiddlehead ferns: why <br />do I think of them do I <br />Think: Toraiwa? <br />Because–surprise–he quizzed me <br />about the erotic life.<br /><br />Seamus Heaney<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/tankas-for-toraiwa/
