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.
