Wednesday, 10 November 2010


The music stopped.
I’ve no idea what it was,
but it stopped.

Four a.m.

Wandering through the house,
I step out of the street light on the wall,
and listen.
Behind a closed door,
unconscious mutterings
and a shift in the balance of the duvet.

An open window brings in the night,
no longer soft with woodsmoke
but hard.
A silent shadow from the trees
tears a life from the grass.
I close the window.

Brass peddles are cold on bare feet
and the keys edges are rough on the fingers.
pushing up through the grain of ancient ivory,
The key depresses
to that half way point,
the point of resistance,

On the stand
that piece that caused so much trouble during the day.
Fingers find their shape,
rattle the felt hammers
and in my head

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