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Carol Rumens

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Gift

I found it in the night,
where the sideboard had stood –
a box, carved from walnut
or, possibly, thick amber.
It had an inner glow
like an old wireless set
when the news is sombre,
but I knew it was a piano:

a cleverly-made small upright.
And now I lift the lid
on keys, black pearl and white,
yet mutable, semi-liquid
like semi-quavers on staves.
Warmth runs down my arms,
over my hand-backs, even
as disappointment strikes.

It’s not a toy, not quite.
It has two octaves.
Let’s try an arpeggio
in F, the key of kindness.
I press the keys: sweet shocks
of sound sing out, exactly
tuned, proof of a blind
perfectionism. I play.

Now here’s a little light
music for those who’ll never
know fugues, the note-chains that
fly and entwine and leap
further and further from home,
who’ll never believe in my knowledge.
This is my daughterhood.
And I will play one depthless tune on it.

 

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