The Old Piano
The old piano’s rosewood face delights the dappled room;
by Paul Murdoch
It glows with winter’s wholesome warmth, and checks the musty gloom.
Its vibrant tone, now stilted some, still lures us to its side,
And though the keys are cracked and worn, we cannot shun or chide.
But higher still than pitch or skill, we place our darling child;
Whose garrulous giggles fill the air and drive our senses wild.
And every note, be flat or sharp, we savour, relish, keep -
Within our hearts, forever more, where time may never sleep.
A sunbeam glints her auburn hair and flashes o’re her smile.
Her scarlet ribbons dance and sail, surpassing any trial.
A tune of chance, betwixt the song, is sounded out, complete;
As sheets of quaver-etched recitals pile around her feet.
To see my darling child embrace such salient sounds so pure;
A tapestry of innocence that age cannot endure.
Though sweet the sound of violins or angel’s choir en masse
The old piano’s charm and guile, one never can surpass.