on hearing a memory
ragged tagged old guy
sawing away on what looks to be
a fiddle even older
scraping out a tune
that an equally scruffed up associate tap dances to
on the pavement
collection tin nearby
into which they doubtlessly hope
more silver than copper will be dropped.
Being in the midst of the crowd surging by
I am virtually jostled almost out of listening range
but I wanted to stop and tell them
(at their convenience)
that the tune takes me back to Junior school morning assembly
Mr Thomas, headmaster
looking down from the stage in front.
I say looking but it could have also meant searching
for unmoving mouths
wafting the air with his trusty baton
accompanied by Mrs Higgins, deputy head's heavy-handed
plinking and plonking piano playing
both officially encouraging us
to give-sing our thankful praises to the
LORD OF THE DANCE
it's suggestions of an all encapsulating presence of singular godliness
a cloaked underlying indoctrinating way of
guiding our childhood worshipping aspirations
in their preferred directions.
Yes, I wanted to tell them
but, decided to let uknown sleeping Gods lie.