Evening Star Poem by Peter Jones

It was, in truth, a sort of tune
which sang a chattered dynasty
and gossiped through the evening hearts,
with scraping chairs around the room;
the beat kept true with thudding darts
and snooker balls in harmony.

Clinking glasses charged the smoke
that rose in such unhealthy clouds
through crates of beer which came and went,
to play their anaesthetic joke.
Their wooden laughter seemed content
to immunise the Friday crowds.

At nine o’clock she rose once more,
unsteady with the gin and lime,
to play the same songs once again -
an icon they could touch and see,
and hear the creaking voice in pain,
sing a battered ‘Summertime’

“Best of order” shouted Ron;
a limping barber by the bar,
who loved her dearly in his way
and dreamed of passion now long gone:
a life so empty in the day;
now lit by his un-faded star.

And as she sang, she did not think
of dreams that fired her youth;
but closed her eyes and let notes ring -
inspired by an audience and drink:
they; content to let her sing
and give their lives some sort of truth.