Three Poems

The Christmas wind blows bin lids,
clattering alleluias. The Sally Army,
as the Salvos are girlishly called here,
form Rorschasch blots in Oxford Street.

That's the music (but say it tenderly!)
for people without much of an ear:
my father, for one, thumping out
"What a Friend, etc." and "Are You Washed",

for the benefit of me, for two, in the shed,
wet afternoons; and when I asked
who Jesus was, he said "The best
man in the world: the first Socialist".

It's also the music of Friday nights
and the old Adelaide market (by "old"
I mean the wooden structure with rats
...