October Montpellier Morning

On the bandstand backed by textured bushes

the musicians are setting up, languidly,

beside the long, wide avenue of plane trees

turning their greens to gold against the blue.

 

Silver instrument cases are carried to the small

white van. The double bass is erect with promise

in its gleaming, rich, resonant brown.

The fiddle player arrives, dressed all in black

 

like the slight, curved case she cradles.

Leads are laid with care across the stage.

Leaves have started to fall.

The lead guitarist cannot wait, sends a slow

 

bending riff to the bright balloons announcing

the charity stall, hopeful, under its blue shade.

Soon the bench-sleeper will stir

under his grubby table cloth and drink

 

from the bottle waiting beside him that

was half-empty, but will become half-full.

The drummer has joined, surprisingly softly.

Saturday morning in Montpellier is warming

 

and unheard, as yet, unseen salt water

is already rising, ballooning uncharitably,

a riff on creeping, sleepy centimetres, to

lap at the lower town, mounting Montpellier.

Terry Gifford, October 2022.

 

 

 

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