Jazz rhythms of sunlight, punctuated by cloud,
snap all summer long about the dusty front porch,

baking the steps and the beaten pair of seats
that face out into the passing theatre of the road,

while the old piano sits and broods impatiently
in an unfrequented back corner of the house.

Only once winter has settled fully in, with its
long hours of truculent shadow, is it played;

beneath the blinking eye of the lantern light,
her fingers flit warmly over the forgotten keys,

set in their repeating patterns, like fence posts
breaching the surface of banked-up snow.

Robert Ford’s poetry has appeared in a number of print and online publications, including The Interpreter’s House, Brittle Star, Butcher’s Dog and San Pedro River Review. He is a member of The Brewery Poets in Kendal, England. More of his work can be found at https://wezzlehead.wordpress.com.

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