Playing Granny’s Old Piano.

When I was young I used to play that jangly old piano;

the notes went round and round the insides of the instrument

like I was playing in an empty hall or in a canyon.

In those days I had some ancestors still living,

who, multi-coloured birds all, perched high up on the escarpments,

listened, and encouraged with calls that blossomed in my ears,

blossom still; rare blooms, I didn’t know that then.

I will never out-perform the Michael that played for them.

I listen to this album to hear those notes; the old hall, jangly piano;

high up, wisps of old birds still cling to protruding ledges;

higher again, the sky squats, tone-deaf and waiting.