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