My fingers graze
the feeble strings
elicit a sweet song
from her gentle form.
Her voice rises
tells a thousand tales
takes me back
to the land of old.
My eyes closed
to floodlights
a green land
replaces the cityscape.
I took this journey
in childhood days,
Paris to Brittany.
My grip tightens
smooth wood pushes
against my shoulder.
Oh if I could make them
see the old fountains
that haunt my dreams,
hear the white waves
thundering toward the shore!
Applause washes over me
drowns the last notes.
They flee, unnoticed,
into the summer night
the green land – a shattered dream
I rise, put aside the harp
sweat beading on my face
smile, thank you, bow.
End of song.
YOU ARE READING
Sometimes I Don't Want to Be Home
PoetryA collection of poetry about finding your place in the world. Belonging somewhere, belonging nowhere, finding and losing people.
