The rain stopped, finally.
Folk hurried through the Cross.
Shoppers, pub-goers,
chasing the sudden sun.
Stuart had the guitar.
Finding an E chord.
A scavenged piece of string
tied neck to base for a strap.
He had it slung over his shoulder,
like it had always been there.
People walked by,
didn’t pay him any attention.
The statue of Rabbie Burns
stood above him,
watching the Cross like always.
Stuart looked around.
Hair soaked.
Coat soaked through.
Drookit.
He took it off
and parcelled it up behind his feet
against the bottom of the statue.
“Right,” he said.
He smiled and started the riff to Seven Nation Army.
No one counting him in.
Just him.
Just the guitar.
Just the wet stone under his feet.
He started moving.
Shoulders going.
Head going.
The beat.
Always the beat.
No pick.
Hand to string.
Skin to string.
To fretboard.
People passed by.
Someone put a few coins
in the little cup he had set out.
He played.
Seven Nation Army.
Someone walked by
singing about Rory McKenzie.
Stuart smiled and sang:
“Oh, Rory McKenzie.”
He clapped the body of the guitar
with the flat of his hand
and played on.
Paul Andrew Sneddon 