ANDREW BLAKEMORE - The Old Piano

Within the corner of the room
Her old piano stands,
The curtains drawn the view obscured
Across those verdant lands,
That warmed her kindly heart with joy
Brought music to her soul,
Now for her life that ended here
The village church bells toll.

She'd played those keys so softly
Through the evening's soothing light,
The strains of Chopin's nocturnes
Floated long into the night,
And stoked each flaming sunset
In the skies of burning gold,
Then lit the stars of heaven
Now the room is dark and cold.

The walls are bare where pictures hung
The ornaments have gone,
Now rows and rows of empty shelves
Where once her silver shone,
And yet the thing she treasured most
Was left and locked away,
For no one wished to take it
Or had found the urge to play.

The window closed through which she stared
And all the birds could hear,
Her music from the trees above
To them the sound so clear,
They gathered in the branches
How they loved the tunes she played,
Yet now there's only silence
As they watch the evenings fade.



Copyright. Andrew Blakemore 2009

ANDREW BLAKEMORE

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