Homeless Minstrels

for Ryan:

An enigma stood,
Guitar in hand,
A homeless minstrel on the street;
With music playing in his head,
Words and chords came pouring out;
They formed without his knowing
Where the song was going,
What his final note would be,
Who would meet his eyes and see
The dream that he was sowing;

At home within his song he dwelt,
And welcomed in whoever came;
His door was never locked or barred;
Though rains came down and times were hard;
Lost in his own reverie,
He played his spirituality,
Free from ego, free from shame;

We met his eyes and urged him on,
And, listening to his gift of song,
Marvelled at his spirit free,
Winced at his humility;
Touched by tinges of remorse,
That pulled our hearts with gentle force,
We checked our judgement at his door,
And gaily clapped along;

A song is given each of us,
Placed into our care;
We cannot fully comprehend
The power of each note that we send
Into a world that needs to see
That we are all one family,
That each voice adds its colour to
One symphony we share..

  Edie Batstone