Stars on the horizon.
Beneath your feet.
On the street.
Artists enchanting audiences,
the knife thrower who places her life in our hands.
The dancing string quartet.
The grey-haired man singing Les Miserables’ songs on the Piazza,
yet I only catch the end of it each time.
In the Royal Opera House, The Nutcracker dazzles gracefully,
I feel quids in, I am in the standing row at the back of the stalls,
resting my arms on a velvet pew.
Ending with a Phantom kiss
in the Haymarket.
Days like these keep me alive.