The Old Woman And Her Harp

a poem by tobias kerins, UK

Silhouettes of mystery, on a dark winter’s night
So eerie the corner, lit by candlelight
Skeletal in frame, bones pointed and sharp
Sits the old woman, she plays on the harp

Hair white and long, her skin neatly wrinkled
Wistful her eyes, shining they twinkled
Pointed her nose, so alert are the ears
As she looks to the ground, her face disappears

She sits back upright, her skin is so pale
The lips they are black, the blood it did fail
To bring warmth and invite, her touch cold as stone
Always content, with her harp all alone

The mouth it does open, wise words she does share
Bats in the rafters, for night they prepare
Clouds roll across, the dusk sky is dark
The air becomes filled, with the harp playing Bach

She shuffles her shoulders, and moves her shawl
Revealing beside her, a large crystal ball
The harp it still plays, her fingers they glide
She hums to the music, beaming with pride

Voice breaks into cackle, screeches aloud
The rats they scurry, escape they have ploughed
Bats take flight, the moon shows its face
As she stands to her feet, her harp does embrace

Glowing to the music, the crystal ball moves
She’s no Nostradamus, but this it just proves
Troubles of the world, she predicted come true
A prophecy of sight, of future the view

Returns to her seat, the harp it still plays
Crystal ball, at the end of its phase
Wind picks up, the cold is now sharp
Still she continues, to play the harp

Like a spell that’s cast, she toothlessly smiles
As the flood of despair, it drowns these isles
The harp has played, perhaps its final tune
The light goes out, prophecy of doom

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