The sound of pianos on the beach,
the fall of rain on the roof
like stones under the ancient waves
Your fingers move like lightning
then slowly, touching me gently:
my skin tingles
One of us is learning the tunes
and how to play them,
taking them all the way
inside
Maybe both of us
So much water on the marsh,
in the river and across the roads:
we lie on strange beds
in the summerhouse
The wine rises to the surface,
the body and the bread:
can it be true?
The wild sea is not far away, but
we head inland on old ridge paths,
listening for the tune again,
that eastern poetry,
that distant voice,
that old, elusive love