The Pub Singer
He took the seat, fresh-faced, took to the spotlight.
He shuffled and settled - then with long fingers
And the work of strings, forged glittering streams of sound.
They looked. They listened. For one moment
He had them. For a moment, the fire held back its flicker.
It was a sensitive birth to which they gave those seconds.
He took them among byways and flowers of new love,
Drew ships sailing on cut glass seas. Words were threads
Of life that danced a fine line between delight and the dark.
And in the half-dark, the half-pissed resumed their chatter.
There was a rise of laughter, voices, a spill of coins
Across the bar; glass chinked in the beery air.
Now his ships roared by as powerboats. His words
Thundered on highways obliterating flowers.
Three claps went with him as he slipped from the light,
The ships sunk and words hanging off their lines.
(Jenny Moon, 2003)
© RoutledgeFalmer (2004)