This is a poem that was a product of a writing workshop hosted by author for adults and children, Philip Gross. We were asked to take one postcard from a wide selection of postcards and to then write a short poem. I chose one of an old man sitting in a flat, playing a violin.
In hallowed halls his music played
yet no-one cared to know his name.
His music, the voice of his cherished violin;
not the man
met with appreciation. But in his grey years
that gathered like dust in the creases of his face
He sat
quietly,
silently,
playing his beloved instrument. Yes, in those still days he played his days away; his fingers bent with age but they their way He played and played as he did in halls of yesterday.
