Guitar strings played

on the dark night street,

maybe by light of day

and passing by twilight smile,

but always with a fondness

and ready cheer as the tottering

Hen Party groove

requested a song, a song,

play me a song to remember

when I marry him next week,

give me a tune to cry over

when I think of Liverpool

on this dark street, lit up

only by the smile on your face;

and he would oblige ,

dipping out of his own patient pulse and strum,

and he would oblige and they would dance

for a minute or two, love rekindled,

a stranger forgotten

but whose guitar sang songs of love

on the busking trail, a heart as big

as the city he played in, reclaimed,

now, by the news that the guitar

will play no more.

 

Dedicated to J. Walker.

Ian D. Hall 2018