The Buskers

As I fight my way
Through treacle crowds, they
Hardly register beyond an eye flick:
Two lads singing their all, hands
A blur over acoustic guitars,
They can’t make their passion heard.
On my way back, with sharp weaves
Around ditherers, buggies and
Hell’s granny trollies, another sound
Floats to my ears:
A single violin, some mournful tune
I half-recognise.
How I heard it above the din
I don’t know and I couldn’t
See the player, but for a few seconds
It lifted me clear from
The crowd’s coffin press,
Above the city and away,
Set gently down
In a sunlit country lane.
Unknown player, I thank you:
You’re wasted here.

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