Ironically, I can’t remember when I wrote this poem. However, it is a concept that has been close to my heart for a long time. This poem, coupled with my short story, The Last Dance, are major influences in a screenplay that I am developing.

The man lifts the lid tentatively,

Exposing dusty keys.

Ebony and ivory

Glimmer through the gloom.

He sits down slowly,

Half-remembered chords

Struggling to be heard.


He raises his hands,

And hesitantly, softly,

Starts to play,

Delicately picking out the notes.


A half-smile accompanies

Gently falling tears.

Long forgotten memories

Rise to the surface.