The policeman strides the concrete,
some poisoned daffodil
in his stage boots of tread and leather
and fear of authority.
Troll-like he emerges over the sound
of the head-dressed busker,
her simple song, her trio of chords
singing under the shops,
who despise her art.
And I, against the tide of footfalls
and ‘aww’s’ at the latest range
of lipsticks and daily distractions,
I stop to watch as her will falls limp.
Her squeezebox is strangled of sound,
and the music dies at the order
of an order, the noise pollution
of the High Street’s mating call.
Chair folded, she evacuates through
the traffic fumes, ‘cross the road,
and with hope, with fingers crossed
and eyes wet, I hope this is a retreat
and not a surrender.
Once more he strides the concrete,
his fluorescent jaundice coat
a warning, a reminder, and I see
his eyes mouth the words:
‘Your license please,’ he says to her,
‘your paper proof of your right to play.
What profit plan do you have in place
and who approved your name?’
‘You can’t call yourself a busker’, he says,
‘much less an artist or work of art,
which talent show do you hope to enter,
to validate your part?’
‘Your part in this wholesome land,’ he says,
‘how you do your bit, your profits large,
because our economy is going asunder,
and so we have no time for art.’
‘So it’s with no due regret,’ he says,
‘that I’ll send you on your way.
And if with you goes the death of music,
well that’s just progress made.’
And so I walked away from this scene of
deflowered and purpled hope,
my stomach wrought with injustice
and no nicotine in tow.
And it is to this table I am sat,
with just one vocation upon my mind;
to reclaim her song, now sung in silence,
and steel her memory in time.
And it is to this table I am sat,
with everything on my mind,
to tell of what I’ve seen,
to indulge another rhyme:
Sing to me your sorrow,
sing unto the skies,
play to me your pleasantries
and please purge me of my lies.
Pay us with your sorry tune,
pay us with your life,
all your forsaken childhood dreams,
your faded hopes and strife.
And please,
bathe me in this sunlight,
and bathe me in time,
scour me with city streets
and allow me what is mine.
(c) Edward Coles - Jordan 27/11/13
