The February poem

Gerard Rochford
Virtuoso

None of the beggars greet her,
share their cans or fags.
She wears a wedding hat,
her hair has seen a stylist.

Her violin is polished, strung,
the bow taut. Everything is ready
but something’s wrong.

Her bow never touches the strings,
though her legs move as if dancing.
 
She is beautiful, still,
young hair stroking an old face,
foreign, perhaps French, ex-ingénue,
probably mad, whatever that is:
 
I mean look at me – checking out a woman
in the street, wanting to know her story,
take her home, care for her,
put her photo on Facebook,
cilla-black her children.
 
Winter sets in, the word is she's gone south.
Her spirit remains, an unkent song
haunting the moon-cold streets…