On the side of a heated street
the ex trumpet major plays his tune,
sword like sounds soaring,
while darting clouds reflect
on the golden lip.
Hope, he plays. Hope.
A seagull screams out of tune.
On top of a hill
a Cathedral rings the evening prayer.
Around the hill
poets talk their art.
As music and song rubs the evening air
the first star shines silver
along the river.
A sleeping baby gurgles in a happy dream.
The City turns with a sigh.

By Maureen Weldon