11 September 2011

A BLÜTHNER and the Fingers that Lay it Down

In the event anyone has walked on water, 
it would have been during a Chopin concerto.
A Blüthner taken for the seas,
and the fingers that lay it down
taken for a symphonic masters of waves. 

Amid black and ivory tides
melodies distinguish their fine-tune
by the fingers that lay it down.
Grasshoppers jump the bouncing keys,
pulling the strings of a pianoforte.

A bead of salt water rolled along the face
of the fingers that lay it all down,
filling the air so dense with romance,
I may have confused the sweat for a tear
in the Blüthner’s reflection
of hands twice over keyboards.

Eighty-eight tickles travelled the room
plinking about on pointed toes,
leaving a trail of smiles sitting upright
by the grand fingers that lay it down.