One — K.Hunt

A sad looking old man
Sitting in the park of his days
Numbered off now like so many pigeons

In his time he brought dreams of violins alongside
Great lines of hulking soldiers – never meaning to
He still does in a way (probably always will!)

Without the pleasure of senility
An old man can be doomed to take apart an old knot
Make doves from it
He may be doing that now
Casting crumbs to the masses
Some missed
Others gobbled too quickly to be appreciated

This is the curse of the broken violin he holds
He saws air, sour notes in the great symphony drowned
From air he makes music
Head thrown back
Wild hair, grey, tangled, unconcerned
Withdrawn into a small universe
His sad eyes poked out by glee
For a smaller moment

And a long steady moment it is
To be drawn out at stroke’s end
Savoured – the long walk to Cacophony’s crescendo

This is the one to be remembered
A note both bitter and sweet

At this nadir
For no reason
The air itself takes wing
Comes down again
An unsignalled hail of bread and feathers
Instead of sticks and stones
And friends that have always looked the same

Smiling face with tongue poked out
Cursed be the impetus encapsulated
Cursed be the temerity to dream
Happily wipes bird shit off