The Player?

An early piece written in my pad in Brixton where I was starting to open my heart centre, often with the aid of some Einaudi..

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Ivory on ice,
Light in haze,
Autumn afternoon.

It filters through that
Pine tree maze.

Tendrils of smoke
Dance in the late sun,
As that moment comes.

Alpha and Omega united in the room.

Will the player
Or, does the heart
Make it’s own tender tune?

Strung on it’s own frame taut and moving.

A single note stands
Out,
Within the chord.

It dances the heart this afternoon.

An instrument of bone and sinew.
Tuning in.
A harp of my very own.

Butterflies at the top,
Tickle and excite.
Condor wings at the bottom,
Stir and delight.

The pace of it,
Stretches the limits.
Yet grows with a surety that…

Ivory on ice,
Light in haze,
Autumn afternoon.