The Blind

The Blind

Poetry By Matthew Keeley

One magpie screeches outside the orange blind.

It buzzes, fuzzy

behind her.

Eyeless, she faces away in the frozen room.

A heavy coat anchors her to the turquoise seat.


                       she perches

without sinking.

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

behind her

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

                                                                           or Beethoven

                                                                                                 or Brahms.

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.


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