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I'm weaving this portrait
of her presences with hands
& multi-coloured threads
but still can't move
for caved-in crates
& an ageing collection of
hollowed-out Pandoros
some of which I've filled with
ads & lubricants
leathery appetisers
threadbare flannels
her recent notes
plus the remnants
of a bag
of sugary granola
breakfast cereal of the dead stars
I'm struggling with the dative
the accusative
& three false friends
so I'm glad you're here
in the sense of there
& that you're persevering
with the blues
I hear again
out at the western edges
of the market
where a young guy
wields a tarnished trumpet
with a little amp bungeed
to the hard parts of a bag on wheels
& a phone that's stuffed
with backing tracks
from who knows
where or when
a kind of tinny cheese
but then a sound so
lithe & beautiful
glides out into the mauve & purple patches of the sky
the horn supporting us with
elevated earthy tones
& burnished airborne clusters
those notes reflecting dusk
subtleties & the way
a melody will slip
& veer through
unexpectedly evolving
cityscapes & keys
evoking voices
& accompaniments
in smoky rooms
some thirty years ago
as well as this new picture
Cambridge 5th March 2017