Llyn Clague |
The Lined Pad
Stung again,
I sit with ancient envy
and a pad,
a pad lined like a keyboard,
the cold black-and-white instrument
my always older sister, as a child,
used so brilliantly to grab love –
a pad, whose slat-like rows,
blank with potential, stretch to the far edge,
and, from last night,
a memory that evokes, instead of envy
and its darker sisters fear and greed,
light –
a memory, after we both,
in our old age, confessed to depression,
blank with possibles and stretching out far, too far, out to
the edge –
of her saying that,
however dark the despair,
by sitting at the piano and playing,
improvising, toying, almost doodling, she could lift
it;
however briefly.
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