Max Richards

 

Last Night in Lygon Street


Hear that fiddle, quavery
but singing a familiar tune?
‘Greensleeves’ - so evergreen.

To its wordless melody
phrases float up from
my imperfect memory.

She’s jilted him, he’s lilting on –
the other words, I’ve never quite
got them sorted out.

Keening through the dusk
above the traffic noise, it’s
some busking violinist

under the Lygon Street
curving tin verandas
by the flower stall – look,

isn’t the fiddler man
familiar too? –
old colleague, McCann

(philosophy, retired),
still with the sad face
and the gaberdine mac.

Pension (I might ask)
not enough? Neither’s
mine – I ought to busk

myself, but lack the tools,
the nerve, the skills.
And there’s not much in his hat


how much could he earn?
Honestly, this smallish coin
is all I can spare him.

I sidle past unrecognised.
Could it be money’s not
what he’s after, but to test

some theory once sketched
in ethics class, when someone
objected: 'In the real world...'?

Or in aesthetics,
what if the less-skilled version
moves one more than the most?



Lost Children


Such a dream he’d never thought
to have: so many years apart,

he and she, weren’t theirs
closed books, their shared histories?

Their two adult children
showed even-handed affection.

This meeting, it seemed her prolonged
anger with him might have faded.

On once-contested territory
they watched from a balcony

sunset’s glory darkening
over a river valley.

Below, someone – two someones –
caught their attention:

they were about to see
emerging from the darkness

hand in hand
their two lost children,

the ‘terminated’ one,
the ‘miscarried’ one.

All those years had not
been stolen from them! –

elsewhere they’d had to endure
and make lives for themselves.

Now they were moving this way,
about to reveal themselves

in some other glory.
What might they say?

‘We sensed we had a part
in dooming your partnership’? –

‘inadvertent, of course;
mostly it was your own feelings

undefined, unexpressed,
finding darker outlets.

No, we can’t stay.’
He still had nothing to say.

Soon gone; without his even
saying to her ‘did you see?’ –

nor her any word to him.




 


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