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PIANO
Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;
Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see
A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings
And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.
In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song
Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong
To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside
And hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide.
So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour
With the great black piano appassionato. The glamour
Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast
Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.
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Since I left home, the thing I've found myself missing the most is the piano: today I possess neither the space nor the spare moolah for a piano, and this is taking its toll. As a young kid I used to loathe practising lots of scales and endless arpeggios on the thing, obviously, but this has somehow bloomed into a fierce passion for that wonderful instrument. It can boom and yet twinkle, bite or sing, now glinting, now glowing.
None of that applied to me, mind you, I was kind of ghastly to hear. But for me there's something about making music by yourself which refreshes the spirit and makes me calm down, and I miss it greatly.
Never mind the past, I weep like a child for the piano.
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