Busker, East Pier

Fog, seeping all over, blotched
the parallel West wall
making the broad Victorian walkway
even more not quite here.

Perhaps a third of the way along,
I heard it, faintly, a banjo
scampering like a little dog
some owner had let off the lead.

As I came closer where the path bent
for the last lap, inclining toward
the squat fort of a lighthouse
revolving its mirror, ruby

as a Sacred Heart,
the air breathed twangling strings,
the tune sure-footed, forgettable
part of that passing,

indelibly stamped evening.
He was standing, scarfed, thick-coated
and bearded as an Ent.
I dropped my tribute in his cap

and wanted to say more
to his gravity-haunted eyes
than ?Cold work?, to which he nodded
and said something too quiet to catch.

As I passed him on the way back
to shore, he had stopped playing
and was packing up, moving on,
in the opposite direction.