When he was two, grandson Jacob would pull me upstairs to the room I call the studio, sit me down on my stool and point imperiously at my guitar which I had to pick up and prepare to play. At that time I had a keyboard, which I could not play, and Jacob would stand before it with an extremely serious look on his face raise his hands fingers spread and bash down on the keys. My job was to try and keep up. We both had great fun.
Piano composed and played by Peter Tidball.
Making Music.
He grabs my hand, pulls,
not doubting I’ll follow.
Nothing will stop him.
Not the towering stairs,
the scale of the steps;
or that he’s only two.
The gong hangs high as him.
Its great brass disk,
hand beaten in China,
whispers as he passes.
He responds to its call,
with the cotton-headed stick
and there’s a shimmering
sound, upon sound, upon sound.
He points to the stool, my guitar.
Serious, silent we wait and then…
His little hands, fingers spread,
bang down on the keys and
a piano loudly sounds,
I strum and pluck,
as we busk and bash –
making music.
© Anthony Fisher February 2003