Paul Willason Poet Free verse

Putting It Together

I step out into the evening,
into a cloud of whispered conversations,
insect talk, birds uttering 
their “goodnights” high in the trees,
the days last gossip settling
back into a more respectable 
muttering of leaves. 

Then other sounds, 
a child’s cry sobbed out
of an open window and then,
two houses along, raised voices
from down a dark passageway 
spilling into the street
in angry throbs,

and way off,
clanging railway crossing bells 
bridging the distance,
the growl of a truck
changing through its gears
and a siren rasped across 
raw nerves, all this

finding a willing instrument
to work the evening
with all of its discordant notes
and sounds, into a single score 
for an old busker to belt out
the tune on the steps 
of his own front door.

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