Mazurka on a Sunday afternoon
She takes the Chopin album down from the shelf
and in the quiet afternoon before the keys
memories merge with the sounds
of a half-forgotten mazurka, practised
hour after hour behind the podium on the small
grand piano with the sound of ripe apricots, long
ago. She recalls nights full of thousands of notes
and stars reflected in the varnish of the lid,
the mild air, the panoramic view of gleaming
flowers of town lights, red and yellow and white
and green, and time fades and the years blend
with the rhythm of the dance and the regular
flitting from perch to cage and back to perch of the
yellow canary (no: its colour like sweet apricots)
in its blue wire cage; she plays until dusk comes
and her left wrist hurts, the baby moves inside
her and leisurely stretches its arm. Vaguely
from the kitchen behind her she can hear eggs sizzling
in a pan. She plays the final chord (Da Capo
al Fine) and stands up so as to go downstairs
to the entrance, to sign the register and to walk
along the narrow path past the clusters
of daisies to where the light is on in her room
on the second floor of the hostel. I go to
the kitchen and help my child peel carrots while
the canary in its light-blue cage dances a mazurka
in the rich echo of the strings, high in the sky.
To see the original poem in Afrikaans, go to here.
No comments:
Post a Comment