First Movement: Andante

There is music coming from the old café.

A soft trickle at first, wafting through the open doorway.

The bronze light of the afternoon sparkles on the cracked glass

Old stained glass windows, half-boarded up – half broken

Where some misplaced forgotten anger had barged in

Helped by a brick. Or two. A long time ago.

The notes grow frequent – less hesitant – 

Wilder and bolder. Haunting. And free.

In fours, the bars escape, some through the doorway,

Some through the windows, some through the lines of silent chimneys

That ache in the tired sun. Encased in smoke that isn’t theirs

But is the city’s. The smoke is a good stage for the music.

They don’t belong together. But one carries the other.

It is much too early for people to be crowding that particular café

In the middle of the tired streets and the coughing factories

All younger than the café itself. All busier than the café itself.

But a crowd is gathering. The music draws them near.

In couplets and triplets, in solos and quartets

In gathering groups of growing girths

In tremolos and trills and accented staccatos

To listen to singing is to sing with your ears.

The doors are open and the little figure hunched

Over the massive instrument - her fingers, bunched

Dance over the old keys a familiar dance

That we've all heard before - or have we?

And the dance lifts off the keys - off the air

And settles in spaces - in little spaces, here and there.

In nooks and crannies, as all wandering dances do.

In hummings and whistlings, and some ankles and some shoes.

In whirling dust-storms that swirl off the ground,

And everyone listens as the dance dances around.