Only a winter’s tale
On stage, waiting for his cue
he knew he wouldn’t sound like David Essex
but stood there anyway.
Kids whispered in the wings.
Mums and dads sucked Polos beyond the lights.
He knew these things too
even though his eyes were fixed
on the twitch of the conductor’s baton.
He stopped thinking about his sweater,
the weightiness of wool and its tickle on his neck.
Then he started to sway to the uncertain rhythms
of drum, Hammond organ, bass and blood.
Neither he nor anyone knew
what would happen next.