Booted and gloved, she moves with steady grace
round grimy floors and furnaces,
reverently working with primeval fire
and a burning urge
to blow beauty into the waiting air.
She raises the plain medieval flute to her lips,
plays a crystal scale of glowing liquid song
filling the blackened room
with shimmering harmony.
On the fifth Thursday, we were all there,
saucepans, football rattles,
‘Land of Hope and Glory’ on a trumpet,
when the strange man from the corner,
the one who never speaks, came out,
stood at his gate and clapped.
We waved, he waved then went back in.
Tomorrow I will leave strawberries on his path.
If you have any thoughts on these poems, Christine
Griffin would be
pleased to hear them.