Poetry By Matthew Keeley
One magpie screeches outside the orange blind.
It buzzes, fuzzy
Eyeless, she faces away in the frozen room.
A heavy coat anchors her to the turquoise seat.
A black hat-rim haloes her blank horizon
and her distorted black bodies stare back from the silver tea set.
The aroma, once rich, now blends into stagnant air.
A wrong key
and she remembers him there
on the distant piano, always droning.
Her supposed seat waits over by it
and the sickening orange.
She won’t assume her place.
Won’t clasp her gloved hands
and press knees together
and tilt her head and present smiles for the Bach
She’ll wait here by the Chinese black-lacquer screen,
lacking and foreign
in her russet-tinted Glasgow townhouse
For the blind not to open.
Matthew Keeley is a writer and teacher from Central Scotland. He studied English Literature at the University of Glasgow and has had short fiction published by Centum Press, Medusa's Laugh Press and Mother's Milk Books. He is also a contributing writer for Scottish arts and culture website The Wee Review. Matthew is currently seeking representation for his first literary fiction novel, The Stone in My Pocket.