A Summer’s Day On Holy Corner.

The sound of a gentle drum beat fills

the crossroads of Holy Corner as the onlookers,

buoyed by the return of a yellow ball of fire

and source of much anticipation of what it will mean

to the rest of the year, are amused to see one man dressed

in a sponge outfit and one looking like a badly drawn

rat square off against each other over pitch and punter

and the sound of fight, fight, fight, is overheard

under the breath of a radical student believing in secret

that he would die of laughter if it turned out the corporate

mouse with the bent back ear and shuffling gait

was actually his History tutor

earning the much needed dough, his wife demanded

as compensation for yet another year

without a holiday in the sun.

 

The sound of that drum gets louder now and spills

out over the whole of Holy Corner,

the musician bolder as the guitarist joins in and

soon the sound of rusty sax clears its throat and starts

to sing for their collective supper,

as the man proclaiming the return of God,

presumably wearing summer appropriate

clothing, the beach bum, and clutching the Good News

local magazine with hot tips for the deity about town,

hums a different tune and inside his head

hears Jesus talk to him

and is astonished to find that a burger from the

bored but beautiful girl behind

the static caravan is the true save of the day.

 

The rhythm of the Crossroads has reached its zenith

and the three young women, out for their daily stroll,

the exercise of walking off a few pounds

and pence is the highlight of their working week

and the grace of the five finger discount

soon has them believing

that if shopping was an Olympic sport,

then the Russians should watch out,

for the only enhancement visible on these girls

about town is the surprised eyebrow look,

drawn by a man from the Disney

and the orange colour of stop and go.

 

The direct light leaves the intersection where

Whitechapel and Lord meet and somewhere

in amongst the dying fray of the afternoon,

the revellers come out to play, the drinks on me

they shout, as one pours his milkshake over their pal

and how they laughed, although we couldn’t see the joke

as we watched the old man shuffle by, his shoes filled in with

newspaper of a headline long forgotten

but in which the drummer knew off by heart.

 

Even the drumming must stop eventually

and although she filled the city with an echo,

on Holy Corner she saved souls,

for she kept them marching onwards,

never allowing them to stop and pause,

and reflect upon the meaningless of it all,

the drummer girl is the instrument

of a pulse

still searching for its beginning.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015