Below the waterline was the dressing room

like a world war one dugout

where we found traces of previous occupation

the tired and cast off detritus of musicians:

a discarded shirt, dirty towel,

yesterday's Daily Mirror coiled and thrust  

into a waste paper basket,

drawers of hair grips. old smudged tissues, half - used makeup,

cigarette stubs in a tin ashtray

the faint scent of success

reflected by a long run of mirrors fringed with bulbs. 

 

We feathered the nest:

Mr.Perfect the trumpet player quickly disinfecting the area

disgusted at such breaches of etiquette

polished the underside of his patent dress shoes

commandeered the solitary coat hook remaining

the others using edges of doors and rails,

the singers inevitably in an upgraded adjacent room. 

 

We began to test slides reeds valves practice drum pad

dressed for the evening dance

spilling out into the trench corridor and over the top

at the Floral Hall Hornsea.