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Recorder Man

The street is stagnated and depleted,
strewn with creased cardboard and shattered glass;
a stray cat with breadcrumbs in its whiskers runs pass.
Out of the blue comes a singing note, drifting and
dancing like dust in the swaying wind, easy and slow.

Straggling strangers saunter in nonchalance by,
whilst I look from left to right from backwards to the side
there sits a lonely man, crouched on a wilted wooden chair,
eyes closed and fingers grasped
around a hand whittled instrument,
without a glance without a care.

Eyebrows creased in effort, deep valleys in the face,
I feel a wist of nostalgic contentment drift my way.

There dances the music in the sunlight,
a crisp colourful melody casting spinning colours,
an old man’s poignant nomadic tune.