The Key

http://globe-views.com/dreams/piano.html

She floats her way through shadowed halls

as thought escapes from its confines,

an image of a younger self

so long ago she can’t recall—

absorbs once more into her mind.

Her later years have not been kind,

perception fades into a fugue—

old names and faces cast a blur

and all the memories left behind

have slipped away, eluding her.

But still she finds familiar route

to afternoon’s sweet interlude:

pale parchment hands touch ivory

and without pause or moment’s doubt

she reaches out to find the key.

A moment later song concludes—

in haste, the memory disembarks;

she fades again behind the veil…

   locked away in solitude

   an aging soul with body frail.

© Ginny Brannan 2015

Amazing how the mind works: because music is stored in a different part of the brain, someone who has dementia may still find comfort in music; the hands remember what the mind cannot. Written about a dear nonagenarian who still manages to 'tickle the ivories.'

The Break-Up

I have lingered in this darkness much too long

waiting for the veil to lift—the sun to shine—a bright new dawn.

Aint it funny how you had your say, had your way, and then were gone…

leaving me to feel your icy bite, the endless night —as your response.

Less than taciturn, you made me ache, you made me hurt; I felt the burn;

yet in that moment you adjourned, I concede—a lesson learned.

I look out to see the dawn has come and I confirm, the tide has turned.

as I watch the darkness dissipate I anticipate that life returns...

I have survived to face another day without your sway...you were so wrong.

© Ginny Brannan 2015

Image: C. Parant Appetite for Photos, used with expressed permission

In this piece I have personified winter, which just doesn’t want to go away. Like a bad relationship, I am so over it! This is set to a song I've had in my head for days, an instrumental piece with horns and a sort of Spanish rhythm. Can't place the song, but this is set to that rhythm. Still editing.

Where my heart lies...

Ireland I am coming home

I can see your rolling fields of green

And fences made of stone

             ~ Garth Brooks 

Petergate, with a view of York Minster, York, UK photo by Tess Kincaid

Unknown…yet familiar,

we walked the cobblestone streets—

jaws dropped agape into

“Pinch me, am I really here?”

position

Were we actually on foreign soil,

or had we finally found our way

‘home’

© Ginny Brannan 2015

Photo: G.Brannan, Kilkenny, Ireland 2006

Photo: G.Brannan, Galway, Ireland 2003

Written for Magpie Tales #261, inspired by Image taken by Tess Kincaid.

           She provides the image, we the story!

The Arrival

Winter’s lingered much too long

a most unwelcomed guest—

we’ve tried to hurry him along

without too much success.

But almost imperceptibly

a change looms in the air,

and if we take a moment’s pause

we may just feel it there.

Pale gray secedes to bright blue skies

—a tease of warmth and sun—

the birds return to build their nests,

the longer days have come.

The swollen brooks have breached their banks,

the snowdrifts disappear—

we shed our coats for lighter wear…

yes, Spring is finally here!

© Ginny Brannan 2015

Image by C. Parant at

https://www.facebook.com/AppetiteForPhotos

Used with expressed permission.

Hoar Frost

In nature's beauty, peace is found…

A star filled night upon the plain

   invites small jewels to form again….

These delicate and frozen gems

align in perfect symmetry—

they cling to even smallest stem

in ways that man could not create.

I truly am in awe of such

   for this is no designer’s touch…

their form defies imagination.

The daylight breaks, and with the dawn

we find we cannot hold nor halt

the melting of these tiny shards…

and so we capture, we encrypt

their image to our memory’s vault.

Then, left inspired by what we’ve seen

in moment of tranquility

we've ascertained ability

to face our day with newfound calm.

© Ginny Brannan 2015

Apparitions

Caught in the beam, the strangest scene occurs

as sudden squall calls spirits to arise…

across the empty roadway now they stir

in whispered hush to dance before my eyes.

The softness of their form allays all fear—

these silent apparitions of the night;

as quickly as they've come, now disappear

and I alone left witness to their sight.

© Ginny Brannan 2015