At the Festival Hall
The crinkling rhythmic
stabs of her face
increase
when Columbus-like
she mounts those
flat archaic steps.
Locked in the dark
alcove of a cafe I
looked unseen into
her
deeply introspective
face.
My friend says goblins
dance - the sunlight
swamps us all, rhythmic
like Ravel.
“Have a cigarette” -
she creeps like a cat
through dead with night
Trafalgar Sq.
When I hear her
- a tune from old jazz -
she moves in time,
I stumble in the space
of darkness
surrounding coffee-bars,
the depth is greater
than hearing -
at the bottom you can hear
her startling voice
popping like a cork -
that’s the horror -
the voice that chases
you - holy in sunlight
member of the community.
Get down with your mother, see her
from the inside.
Page(s) 80
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