There Is A Music Room
There is a music room,
but the piano is never played,
and invitation cards,
but the brown table is never laid.
The gardener rarely spoke,
he blamed the times on the broken chain
of the rose garden gate
someone broke down on a night of rain.
There is a rusty swing,
a wooden roundabout and slides,
hidden by apple trees,
saying childhood comes but never bides.
The playground forgotten,
but sometimes in a dark windowed car,
someone drives up the path,
as when, clear of clouds, there shines a star.
The gardener turns and smiles,
wonders what the wind is saying,
for in the music room,
the mistress of the house
is at her black piano playing,
playing quietly what she once called
her new dawn symphony,
of the kingfisher and the dove,
the kingfisher for the flight from the river,
the dove cooing from the woods
for the mystery of love.
Then his head, he shakes,
the last crinkled leaves, he rakes.
Thinks the little left behind,
the present takes.