AYLA NEWHOUSE
Widow's Lament

Her shadowed spine
straightens to the bend
of the melody inside her head.
A lone finger
traces the keys
as a child,
with a new colouring book.
"Play," she commands;
and her song floats
over scars,
and memories she forgot,
until today.
But she could always disappear
in the moon,
in her song.

Silence,

Three keys tap idle,
under fingers painted yellow,
to hide the yellow beneath.
She's hidden the past,
beneath a wall she calls the future.

Silence,

A note that ends on cue.
The speed of sound
and tired traffic,
travelling highways below.
There's a window left unopened;
threaded in a spider's string,
decaying with the bones
that play her last note