You’d walked the dirt-road to Tennessee on Appalachian soles,heart keeping time with Welsh balladry stirring in nascent blood.
Life on the fringe was infinite loom of dappled song, wealth and riches would have stifled at genesis.
Dirt was not death of dream but nursery yeasting inchoate notes into rollicking music that flings all prison doors open.
Lack loosed all chains to cage the singing bird whose gift of song promised to heal the world and make it a better place.
Myth,history’s forerunner, was your pedestal to look beyond odds-and-ends of worn emptinesses, and you stood resplendent in your universal coat of a thousand colours stitched together from riotous rags.
Oh the joys of vacant curiosity, the rugged pride of parental lore that dimmed the dazzle of red lights.
Not even scheming Jolene could take your love away nor the knowing winks of streety types your radiance in honest poverty.
Country found a home in your voice that carried beyond borders to the courts of heaven compelling shy town to step aside for your dusty ditties to regale proud society.
You slay with nostalgia the stomping pachyderms of psychedelic apocalypse as you return us to our germinal roots.
@ Chris Anyokwu. August 30, 2026.
