People dash across our TV screens
like sheep scatting from a moorland blaze,
they’ll disappear over the edge of dreams
when we ascend to sleep away the day.
But, all of a sudden, within a frame,
a portrait animated and tightly-strung:
the cellist plays on streets where lame
buildings hobble before falling down.
His slashback hair is aging a rocker style,
upturned moustache makes a sign of peace;
his two faces: a pizzicato smile
and mournful vibrato of so much grief.
His audience are the pavement wreathes,
from the distance come heckles of gunfire:
the amphitheatre where he once bowed
is a frozen skip of bricks and wires.
On a thin point he gradually spins
the web-fine veins of an Adagio,
while hearing the bomb’s deadening dins
and fearing for that small bridge below.
by Mike Jenkins
from This House, My Ghetto
Rambling At The Bridge Head 