Piano
For weeks it has stood silent. We
are leaving soon, the Steinbach
will be sold along with our home.
Tonight I lie upstairs in the dark
unable to sleep until you’re safely
beside me. From our living-room
the liquid notes of Clair de Lune
spilling into the air. Always your
bed-time serenade to me. I can’t
imagine how difficult it must be
keeping time, finding the right
notes, with trembling hands.
Morphine is both merciful and
cruel, dulls the senses. But your
sense of humour survives.
A burst of Black and White Rag
and our home is suddenly alive.
I’m sure you are smiling;
your final offering: Beethoven’s
Farewell to the Piano.
More poems from the collection Blood Plums