The Word Cloud

I wrote this on the side of a main street in Dublin while listening to a street string quartet that I love. Not sure if it's any good but I've been writing more poetry lately - though given I used to write none that wouldn't be hard - and thought I'd stick this up on the Cloud as I've been any for a while.

Vladimir

Their music came from ages past
From Paris, Vienna and Rome
Concert stage to opera hall
Echoes in ceilings of stately homes
Italian ballet to Russian dance
And few granted this rare chance.

But here they came:

Their stage - a square of street
So many to busy - just passed by
Yet somehow in time with the feet
That pattered along and we
The privileged few who stood our ground
-the elite- who understood, we heard
Beyond the pulsing city around
The magic that came through those notes.

The lead violin, whose feet would dance
And leap to the wonder of this own skill
They gave so freely what they had
A pittance cast from my hand until
The guilt of having so greedily and cheaply drunk
The sweetness of their songs had faded
With the last few notes that behind me sank.