Sunday, November 1, 2015


Phillip dodd

She played her love in a minor key,
to say it was deep, not sad.
Her piano found her melody,
the best tune she ever had.
Clarinet jazz in dim city bars,
solo saxophones on stage,
trumpet traffic droned with horns of cars,
scored the unharmonic age.
She still had tools to build her tower,
tunes too fine for violin,
eternal tapped in a passing hour
was the music of within.
So she pedalled her piano slow,
hurt by crimes heard on the news.
Her cargo she had the strength to tow,
found the chords to play the blues.
She stayed alone in the concert hall
with red roses in her hand.
As waves and the wind will lift and fall,
she still wades towards her land.
Dreamed she flew in a white aeroplane,
from the engine came no sound.
She counted clouds, flowing hills of rain
that fell far with her to ground.
Described her house like a hollow tree,
her melody had no name.
From her harbour, launched it on the sea,
to sail beyond pain and blame.

Phillip dodd

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