Within the corner of the room <br />Her old piano stands, <br />The curtains drawn the view obscured <br />Across those verdant lands, <br />That warmed her kindly heart with joy <br />Brought music to her soul, <br />Now for her life that ended here <br />The village church bells toll. <br /> <br />She'd played those keys so softly <br />Through the evening's soothing light, <br />The strains of Chopin's nocturnes <br />Floated long into the night, <br />And stoked each flaming sunset <br />In the skies of burning gold, <br />Then lit the stars of heaven <br />Now the room is dark and cold. <br /> <br />The walls are bare where pictures hung <br />The ornaments have gone, <br />Now rows and rows of empty shelves <br />Where once her silver shone, <br />And yet the thing she treasured most <br />Was left and locked away, <br />For no one wished to take it <br />Or had found the urge to play. <br /> <br />The window closed through which she stared <br />And all the birds could hear, <br />Her music from the trees above <br />To them the sound so clear, <br />They gathered in the branches <br />How they loved the tunes she played, <br />Yet now there's only silence <br />As they watch the evenings fade. <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />Copyright. Andrew Blakemore 2009<br /><br />ANDREW BLAKEMORE<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-old-piano-2/
