Thursday, 7 June 2018

Child at the piano poem by Dèr Mouw

A blond child plays the piano. And a brace
of solemn, churchlike, flanking candles gleam.
The Past like some blue swirling mist would seem
to seek the Now’s bright halo at a chase.

As from afar, I hear the rippling scale
where Mozart’s pious child’s smile’s borne aloft,
and from hoar-frosted grass stems, rustling soft,
a silver tinkling glides on moonbeam trail.

My child’s so pious gaze is on the score –
and all at once, what’s often sought seems found,

as if my mother played there as before,
and I, trusting child, now heard the sound;

and through the magic of that ancient air
my mother’s young, my child has greying hair.

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