re POEM 4

Accordion man

sat on the south-east side

of Piccadilly Gardens,

under the stern silence

of what were originally

Victorian cotton warehouses, now

obscured slightly by contemporary

glass and steel.

clothed in second-hand pass-me-downs,

and a slim scar, only an onyx ring

on his index finger seems

out of place on this forty-something face,

though might be younger,

if life had not dealt him a bitter hand;

handed him a royal flush

or a full house of cards,

a better hand to play

his gift in a London

orchestra. Instead,

head tilted sideways, he maps a fanciful

world with wiry fingers, as shadows

pass without a thought, journeying

towards perfectly stitched lives.

Catherine Mark