Bucky Doo

The band that played

so brightly in the summer square

beneath the spreading

broad-leafed tree

have packed their shiny notes

and music stands while leaves

have fallen dry as parchment

until the tree is bare, and

only folk in winter coughs

now shuffle there. Night

brings out the lager lout

then later rimes the frost

while sometimes on a bitter bench

declines in winey sleeping bag

a silent soldier of the lost;

but always playing overhead

with never pause for breath,

the spinning spheres spin on

innocent of seasons

and innocent of death.