Sky Piano

In the summer house, the one with the piano, gentle sounds can be heard; quiet, loud, quiet, loud, as the sun reaches its highest point.

I sit on the village green, alone, waiting for you, the loud piano parts reaching me intermittedly, as the wind changes direction ever so slightly.

I think about the sky.

You ride your bike down the country lane that leads to the village with the village green on which I sit. You whistle a tune which to me says summer days, broken pottery pieces on the stream bed at the bottom of your parents' garden, breadsticks, cream cheese and the melted chocolate bars you bought for me to say "sorry".

We choose the things which suit us best, the things that come our way, and the things that we can catch most easily (or at all).

The improvised piano piece, rising and falling, but not quite too far or too soon. The way that it makes you feel. The summer rain, which will come soon, and will be welcomed. The village green. My summer dress, my plaited hair. My 17 years. Your 18. All the things we have yet to do.

(I wrote this while listening to "Harry Piers" by Penguin cafe, which is what I imagine is being played in the summer house)