Jack would play the organ
At the local Odeon
Until the talkies came.
Could Gwyneth love him the same
As when in matinees
Crisply shadowed rays
Of Hollywood had been
On the smoke and on a screen
Like linen on the bed
Where nothing at all was said,
And they moved in a black and white night
Of flickerings from streetlight?
Oh, how she’d loved that magic,
And him there making music!
