Breath and bread

Breath is true, a rhythmic ripple
rocking the ceiling above my bed,
a cyclical sea, linking my lungs
to the ebb and the flow, the ceaseless tread

which marks the moon-wrung, sun-spun world
with high-lines and ox-bows, living and dead.
Dry one day, they shimmer again
like lungs and blood for breath and bread.

True I breathe, as rivers for seas,
living on moments of freshness fed –
never a surplus, yet heavenly peace
cradles the ripples, and soothes my head.

Still Life: Piano

These silent white keys
were once made of elephants' teeth.
And the chopsticks ones of ebony.
Which is a type of wood,
which we didn't know,
until Peter took lessons.
The piano we now have is all plastic and chipboard
beneath a smart black veneer,
black as the whole room was
before the electricity returned just now,
letting me make music once more.