Showing posts from March, 2018

Her Fingers

Her fingers press the keys
With skilful muscle memory
Of adolescent compositions.

But now, her fingers are clothed
In the jewels of promise
And the band of union.
Her fingers press the keys With skilful memory.
A would be forgotten melody Is slowly remembered, Quickly played.
But her fingers have changed. They have reassembled the shards of me, They have studied my skin,
They are now clothed With the jewels of our promises, And the engraved band Of our union.

I wrote this poem in 2014 for my wife Silje soon after we were married as she played something she’d written years before. I was watching her, and struck by the simple image of her playing a piece she’d written with fingers that are now clothed with our wedding and engagement rings. 

When it snowed in Montpellier in February 2018 she was playing Prelude in C Major by J.S Bach. I thought the image of her playing with the snow outside would go well with this poem, so I recorded her without telling her. She can be very shy about her music. But don’t w…