Out of the pub window, the digger crawls up and down
A JCB bucket above the local pub,
the fumes and clatter of the street,
a piano in the bucket;
they are building in the street
knocking down a row of houses
enveloping the inner town
on a day with rainwater everywhere, a bitter
November wind, a southerly like this
will have them straining
to secure the strings,
anchored on their clavier moorings.
Inside the chattered-laid pub, three men
natter and hatchet the week’s events,
An old bull, with his dog, sits up in his seat,
steadies himself for another pint.
He sees the forlorn piano crossing
from across the street, reverberating
No 2sp sitting there playing Three Blind Mice, Zac looks up;
they’ll be after his place next.