FRED YEAST

It seemed as though the day had gently slipped away.

The sun sunk beneath the outline of a tree

Whose branches swayed, appeared to wave

Looked to revel in the masquerade

Like the shadow cast by puppet on a sunlit eve;

Till its backdrop dimmed and dusk settled in

Shrouding the sky, the outline receding,

Slowly disappearing.

The pair of old Oxfords were plucked

From a tattered cardboard box

For the very last time:

They dusted and danced across the wood-tiled floor

Evoking vague memories of limelit nights

When they dazzled with shoeshine,

Their borrower cutting a dash in an 80s tux:

The protégé, the said-so, told-you-so, love you oh-so

Much…

And now, emerging from the dank shadows, left of centre,

The worn heels and scuffed tops portray a kind of serenity,

A benign ageing, a sense of self-knowing:

The actor a vagrant; his audience eating

From the palm of his hand.