I sit on the seat in front of it,
Lift the lid and there they are,
Eighty-eight of them
Looking at me expectantly.
There are white ones,
Fifty-six of them,
Black ones,
Thirty-two of them.
They all stare at me,
Wanting me to touch them,
To press them down.
I press one,
And a note sounds,
That is fine.
I press another one,
A little harder,
And a louder note sounds
But it is not music.
Music comes from the soul,
Through the fingers,
To create wonderful sounds,
On this mechanical instrument
Of hammers and strings.
I try and play it,
And can get tunes from it,
But they fall into insignificance
When the masters play,
The Piano.