She walked slowly through the Lexicon
It was a bright and warm summer’s day
She avoided the cracks in the pavement
Swaying her hips in that inimitable way.

Passed discount shops and disused banks
It was 11:55, five before striking midday
Perusing new autobiography windows
Turned heads and right, came to a subway.

Pointed red leather and sharpened heels
Whitewashed walls contrasted the way
Stooped to offer a brown note to a cap
A nod of gratitude and an offer to play.

Placed case against wall, opening locks
A purple velvet bed, offered violin to the fray
Hovering and swooping over six-strings
Circulates a roundabout near Weather Way.

Harmonica offers a bluegrass refrain
A ray of light blue, the first time since May
Silk skirt and ginger beard played for hours
Thousands of miles from Mount Mitchell USA.

Exchanging glances, nods sporadically
No words required as hands they pray
Passing audience deep pockets loiters
The cap’s sterling notes, no fit for hair so grey.

Frenzied and lilting with her Catalan bow
Notes reaching TK’s from near Millennium Way
Crowd-funding meals for a week’s Premier Inn
Two unknowns, Bracknell, not 4 boys in Shea.

Outside boots of scuffed Basque leather
Past German sausage, Braccan Walk away
Nowhere near Barcelona’s coast
Station yard 6 into the atrium, dilated today.

Raven black hair with a golden smile
Weaving strings with battered guitar slay
A garden chair on corrugated cardboard
Underpass stench replaced by Spanish bouquet.

She was Spanish, he was no fixed abode
He said “we play three more”, she said “tres”
On penultimate tune she packed violin case
Never did tell her name, but she could play.

Only one hour ticket on car, she stayed four
Walked slowly past shops to Weather Way
No dismay about yellow ticket on the dash
Made £300 tax-free, or 358 euros, in subway.

The moral of the red, yellow, red plain to see
Keep music fresh, as the notes soon decay
Touched hearts and ears for 120 minutes
Never saw Spanish violinist again, or the NFA.