How the story ends…
A Busker’s Love Song
Pink-glazed clouds hoist frayed sails
over pilgrims, tourists, ghosts; they flock
around a busker as he folds his wings, frail
golden sheen and half the feathers lost
like his ragged repute. Some idle thoughts
burst into mind and soul as he admires how
a lonesome painter’s brush slipped across
indigo canvass of the unsuspecting sky.
Half-torn hat in his hand declares
whether to cry or commend this day.
White Lady struts through town and a fan
of yellowed papers saves the busker’s face.
A pirouette later she sweeps his dreams,
his breath, a kiss into drifts. His faith
in providence gives him daily strength
when his heart lies in the gutter.
He whistles when stifling day of May
and a bitter song cling by his side;
he follows starry signs and secretly prays
for the Underdog pub to show him the way
to ease this pain. Behind a wall of noise
five jesters take shots of his rusty stubble.
A trumpet’s cry tears the air above all those
who gather around legend turned to rubble.
A pack of jolly gods cheer as White Lady turns
towards our hero; her dress, his leg, her feet
his chest explodes with thousand fireworks
as his and hers, his and hers lips meet.
Ladies and gentlemen look at them how
they sing of pinkish clouds and the lush
lapis lazulis of the unsuspecting sky
coloured by a painter’s shaky brush.