Busker by Penny Ayers

BuskerNo one has asked her to hold the world,carry it each day to where there’ll be people—today a precinct of shops, mostly empty.Her voice is soft, sometimes keening. No words.At her feet, a nest of twigs threaded with grasses, teasels of wool. Some drop in coins as they hurry on.Others look more closely, see our world,blue with ruffled seas, brown with crumpled mountains, green with prairies, so fragile, like a Christmas baublethat would shatter if she let it go.Yet they hurry on, scared she