On the stage, no concert grand,
no polished Pleyel waiting for my hands.
In its place a beggar-man’s vielle à roue.
I pick it up, begin to wind out tunes
(I used to dream in colour, not black and white.)
Looking down, snow half covers my feet.
Beside them, an old tin plate. The audience
stand to leave, throwing a few pence.
The lights go out, a moon rises and still I wind
the beggar’s wheel-fiddle, trying to find
a path through the blithely beautiful unfeeling snow.
I wake numb. If she throws me out, where will I go?