He spits into the busker’s case,
laughing with his mates.
Get a job, old man,’ he taunts.
The busker doesn’t slow.
‘You deaf?’ he asks, to no response;
losing interest, saunters off.
Not deaf, the busker strums his tune,
his mind on days long gone;
a foreign shore, machine-gun fire,
brothers stolen
by crimson waves.

Ryan Stone