Tube station blues
Busker strums at the bottom of the automated staircase
his little dog slowly cutely spins round and round
helping in its canine beggarly way to inspire donations.
These moving steps I get on trundle me upwards.
Suddenly I remember the tune the guy is playing and
it returns my mind to the school morning assembly hall
where we are all readying to sing our daily hymns
my harvest festival favourite being, the one I'm hearing at this moment
' we plough the fields and scatter'
just that one opening line
its perfect description to me of my journey through life towards death.
I feel a strong urge however foolish to descend
and ask the guitarist ' why are you playing that one?'
but fortunately, I've been conveyed too far and
blocked by too many people to do so
as I have been for so many years
by meeting as I furrowed through each of the future's grounds
those who seek to impede my progress
and the determinations that I had always tried so hard to maintain
and avoid falling by the wayside.
Years without guiding handrails like these I'm presently holding
years without safety switches that are protecting my ascension
unlike long ago helplessly being carried to unforeseen highs and lows.
For now, it is these analogically stirred school day memories
that I am cherishing
each of them having been kick-started by the headmasters
loudly bolstering of our college and university aspirations
in his dutiful masterly way.
This escalating ride ends in daylight
where the crowds and I gradually scatter
to our own, productive, or not, fields of business
and personal privacies.