The Minstrel

The Minstrel In a doorway, squatting, strumming out of tune There sits a minstrel, gazing whilst he plays A string of chords, discordant in their mix Combining all his thoughts of better days. Unshaven, threadbare, clothed as once he did Before some unexpected fall from grace, So now he plays life’s thoughts for all to hear As passers-by avoid his careworn face. A flat cap holds a few small copper coins Reflecting those who understand his plight And so I cross and place a token too Acknowledged only by a nod so slight. His eyes look through me, seemingly to say, This could be you who's sitting here today.