Distant Music Poem by Keith Shorrocks Johnson

I am of a stifled thought-tormented age
and conjure the past for images of music.

If I cross the threshold and Lily takes my coat
can I not overhear the piano playing -

And enter to see Miss Furlong folding away the music
of a pretty waltz?

There is no truer truth obtainable than
comes of music - at once welcome and now silent.

There is a woman standing in the shadow listening -
she hears the melody but for me it is too distant

I hold up my hand to silence those departing -
the image is of my wife - the notes are snow specks.

I exist that is for certain, but for how long -
until the thought ceases or until I cease?

And leaving the picture of words that l have painted,
the snow dissolving and dwindling in its descent,

We must take the passing carriage and brave the quivering chill
as the flakes, silver and dark, fall obliquely against the lamplight.

My wife Gretta is lost to me - she has fallen asleep in tears -
and the snow taps again at the window - all are becoming shades -

And I think of Lily, the caretaker's daughter - the Morkans' maid -
bridling at my attention and the shilling present that the evening brought her.