Still Waters

The Playing of an Accordion.

I stop and wait amid the forward motion of the day –
to cross this artery that slices through a London street.
For thirty years I have called this home.
But no longer are two small hands eagerly reaching out
to encase themselves in mine, for comfort – for protection.
Then as I travel further, deep below these city streets,
awaiting the journey to commence – or continue,
a girl of no more than fourteen turns a pirouette,
to the playing of an accordion.
Somehow, her movements seem so apt,
under the neon white of electric light –
merging with the rustic song;
keyed from fingers, aged and bent.
The journey comes to an end, as it must.
I sit and turn the pages of a book – uninterrupted.
I might once have cursed the comings; the goings:
the paucity of time that I could call my own.
But now I long for the bustle, the chirruping voices,
the dancing and the song.