The Piano

 
Black it stood, lid half open  
golden harp taut with strings.  
She watched him stroke the keys,  
long . . strong . .fingers,  
a pianist's hands . . . . .  
precise, no effort, well thought  
hours on the stool, straight back .
Caressing the keys.   .   .   .  
each according to its needs.  
No effort spared, none wasted.  
Tonight he was to play.  
She slipped beside him  t
there was room. . . .  
The stool long and black,  
thought he did not notice  
laid her hand on his.  
They had never met  
did not know his name 'til now.  
Concert ticket in her hand ,
Schumann on the page  
love in her mind.  
Did he know that she was his?  
‘Schumann! how I love him.  
Let me play . . . . . . .  
know how it sounds,  
but need help . . . . .  
your hands my guide.’  
The pianist spread his hands,  
hers in his palm . . . . . .  
So they played duet to empty chairs,  
gold and red, the lid half open  
Schumann not forgotten . . . .  
taut strings, ivory keys and ebony,  
a pianist's hands, long and strong  
programme on the floor.