to my old piano teacher

to my old piano teacher
    to Mrs. Wells remembered

this afternoon along that road
the paddocks where you grazed
your horses, your pug dogs snuffling
clustered at the door, your riding
crop and helmet, the house
redolent with sun and a dark piano
were all no more than that
nothing history of real estate
zoned out of this universe,
they think, that turf assuming
its rightful price and nothing
else in this day and age.

in jest i called your name
in the heat the breeze
could not budge
‘mrs wells, mrs wells’
and the wind in the leaves
moved in arpeggios
the bird trilled
and the white keys
were the sun between
branch shadows on the
road and those the black that
blocked and took the melody
over like an evening without
its dusk and day
the afternoon
a haunted

january 2016
musick point rd

3 Responsesso far.

  1. peterlebaige peterlebaige says:

    Many thanks, men for your readership and encouragement!

  2. Dean English Dean English says:

    yes, those last italic lines, & the overlay of sense, memory, matter, imagination!

  3. john keast john keast says:

    Ah, those last flowing lines…

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