No matter...

[tectak]

No matter that a shrill, chill blast
blew dark and  hidden through bald crowns,
for through the pricking sleet and snow
a jigging, jolly rhythm flowed.
A distant dance of flickering flame,
glimpsed through steamed up window panes;
comfort in the wintering town,
warm ale, warm friends, at last.

No matter that the house is full
so  fiddler's elbows stab and prod.
While feet  stamp out the bodran beat,
old men squeeze tight to clear a seat.
Then down on to the throbbing throne
the frozen flop and with a  groan
of  heart-felt thanks, a smile, a nod,
and wide-spread wave, they wait their pull.

No matter that the air is baking,
breathed ten times before your taking;
No matter that the raised refrain
makes hearing jar and speaking strain;
No matter that the fiddles fly
and nudge and spill ale struggling by;
No matter that it all goes round
and round and round and round and round.
Here we are  in steaming heat
singing loudly, stamping feet,
doleful  humming through the sad,
cheering all things good and bad.
No matter, we are here and living,
full of music, song, and giving.
 The fiddlers play, some tears are shed,
no matter, we will smile in bed.

tectak
Fiddler's night. The Duke, in Ainthorpe, Feb. 2017