There is a choir and an orchestra
and I talk less
when I know they’re there,
somewhere an accordion plays, a busker,
in other days would prefer to hear
the street performer,
the wanderer with his songs wrapped up and on his heart, trapped in the keys, he plays the accordion, at ease with all,
a penny for the guy.
Each note, a wave that reaches land, and slowly waits, almost hesitates to touch on ears and the ocean in his tunes fill me with something only I can see,
others hear and see so differently, but that is fine,
he becomes the metaphor for wine, the wind red cheeks of time, the autumn when the leaves turn green, the Northern lights, a postcard scene but others hear and see it differently than me and that is fine.
No less a choir and an orchestra, the wanderer who roams at will to fill me one again with the pain of never,
in the tunes
© 2015, John Smallshaw.