Heirloom

And there it stands; upright in the room, next to the window
That would usually shine rays of sun upon it.
But not today.
Threadbare cloths, pictures and ornaments perch there in the dull.
Still. With the ivory beneath.

Then, out of the darkness, a hand. A hand lifts the frayed cloth.
It lifts the lid, and the hinge sobs.
The decrepit brass pedals groan under the pressure.
The keys are depressed, and out, a pall of sound.
No measure nor metre.
The Ivory, glowing with the light of a hundred phosphorescing fire flies.
The Centenarian Strings, glimmering, bright, metallic, insofar as the sun.
Tones, bleeding into each other, like rain seeping into the soil, resonate and sustain,
Even after being played.

Left there, in the room. The lid comes down, the frilly cloths appear again.
Left there, until someone finds it again.

The sky darkens, clouds blanket the earth.
Water starts falling from the ether, saturating the wisteria alongside the window,
Where the sun would usually fill the room with its light.
In the dark, I search -