Sound was the first I knew of him.
That almost wordless nasal moan
rose like a shadow of singing
up three floors.

It swelled our Sunday afternoon.
Held notes drew me outside.
I peered over the shoulder-high
landing wall to find him there.

Serenading in the centre
of our flats, near the rusted
roundabout, this cloth-cap tenor
dragged his leg.

One sleeve of his khaki coat
pinned at the chest beside three medals;
his mouth like a dark glass raised to us
where music wavered.

Our mother doled out pennies,
a shilling, glint of half a crown.
We lobbed them over the edge
to wheel and spin and clatter by his boots.