The Old Violin
By Elizabeth Crouch
A tender metaphor for unseen worth and unspoken pain.
As I lie here now,
All broken and scratched,
A relic of what used to be.
I now reminisce and think what I miss
When I remember how they once used me.
In the days that are gone,
Much music I made,
My life was one beautiful song.
They think I am old and each one has grown cold,
Now the days seem ever so long.
If only they knew,
I’m not really old,
And a little attention gave me.
I would play for them all,
In one great concert hall -
Please someone, come and find me.
Submitted by Trisha Gent:
My mother, Elizabeth Crouch, wrote this poem during a low point in her life. A talented pianist and organist, she also played the pipe organ and wrote poetry throughout her life - mostly about her family and her faith. She had four children and a lifelong partner in my father. Despite her devotion as a mother, she struggled with mental health and a constant feeling of never being quite good enough. She passed away in 2010 and would be deeply honoured to have her poetry recognised, even posthumously.