bandstand

Beside the city’s river is a bandstand –

Victorian, octagonal in shape,

with eight delicate wrought iron columns –

redolent of summer Sunday afternoons,

and the poignant breathiness of brass bands.

Since the pandemic it has been silent,

and empty except for an occasional

escaped toddler pattering across its floor,

their brief glee echoing from its roof.

 

Someone is sleeping rough in the bandstand

in a red sleeping bag. Though it is late

morning he or she still seems asleep.

Probably the last they heard of the night,

before they slept, was the river’s soft passing.

Perhaps the distant siren is not for them.