Jazz at the Lescar

Moore Pope Hunter

Imagine you’re playing to the OAPs

At the Jazz in the Tuesday lunch club in Torrevieja

My father there eating his 

Roast beef



He doesn’t spill the gravy

But hears and taps his feet

He’d do that even as the citizens start at the sounds of chaos;

Birds squalling over a storm;

Running behind arrhythmia 

Your music could be a joke then

I’m relishing the laughter

My father’s patient

But too old as he became

Never heard

The splutter

Only remembered

The order

Of a New Orleans 

He didn’t know