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July, 2006 Rail SongBefore we roll from Gunnersbury, a voice is heard.
Camouflage, jackboots, shorts and vest of leather,
and a flute—playing high, and terse.
Through the brief stop at Turnham Green,
three unhearing teens chatter, mock, and giggle, pretending
to ignore when he, again, barks his plea.
Timbre shrill, the tin whistle chirps on.
Heading to Stamford Brook, the melody goes soft,
sad; his polyrhythms challenge the rails’ da-dom.
Buzz-cut hair. Stoic face. Playing faster, as
Ravenscourt Park, and his notes, flew past;
streaming towards Kensington West.
No applause as he finished his tune.
“Thank you,” he barked; smiled;
and leapt from the Tube. TrackbacksThe trackback URL for this entry is: http://tmwatts.spaces.live.com/blog/cns!BEC4F96B6330E0D6!622.trak Weblogs that reference this entry
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