©COPYRIGHT CATHY GRINDROD
// ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 2015
Close a piano lid and the music inside will die,
keys yellow like tobacco stains on fingers,
strings tighten in their cage. Only milk
will make the ivory shine white again.
My mother taught me this, and how to play;
how to sit with one tune in a beige front room
as dusk is falling and the children call outside;
how to leave the dark wood stool when told,
when note for note is perfect; black, white.
Then Mr Kubilius, who showed me Bach
was silver, red, and stamped his boots;
Debussy turquoise, sea, and crystals
catching light, soft pedalling translucency of air.
My fingers learned to speak for me,
the branches of a lime tree sweeping
over blue draped windows, casting
cooling shadows over amber light. I played,
while Mr Kubilius closed his eyes, and smiled.