She's dressed in black.
Not deep in the cave of the Tube
But just a stone's throw from the
of the mucky Thames
Furiously attacking her sonata.
Tired-taut strings sing yet again
The ole Stradivarius not ole enough.
Above her cabs swerve like geese
fighting unexpected gusts of careless
cycles, double-deckers and joggers.
She can't see the young couple
boarding the tentaculous eye,
glowing deep-sea electric blue against
the gray-purple depths of sky,
Or the Union Jack above the spired needles of Parliament,
sounding out the last-of-the-season breeze,
where mum and hundreds of grandmums have flown before,
Or the jade-shining windows above Ben's big hands,
wondering why they must always be different,
when the rest of the tower reflects efficiently-dull fluorescent orange.
The snake-charmer at mid-bridge.
The bagpiper at quarter-bridge.
The drag-queen Elizabeth at bridge-end.
The hot-dog hawker.
The gaping tourists.
The trigger happy novice photographers.
Not to mind.
40 pence. 2 quid. She plays on.