A saxophone in the precinct
And a tiny child-bundle stood rapt –
Whether in joy at the music
Or in wonder at the loud sound.
Unembarrassed the busker,
Flawless the blowing.
We too were arrested;
We also were charmed –
But not by the notes –
By the child.
And there was a musical tableau:
A little one listening,
Adults adoring.
I felt I was part of a painting.
Or part of a poem.
Margaret Wilde © 2007
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