Everyday a little death –
so we climb down to the pit,
and wait for summer to show.
Oak, mahogany and beech:
Violins and violas not exactly
cast in light, more like just in reach
of the pixie-blue stand lights
grudgingly giving us our little night
music – expecting, humid, anticipation.
Those of us with silver and steel instruments, though,
seem to go a thin and shaking mauve,
with darts and shafts of grey as we move
to warm up – the audience are in,
and the light is out – evening, reflected
off the walls, hides as the doors shut
and the paced pleasure sinks in.
I can see silhouettes, affected
dances on a face, as we wait,
Our necks resting in hands as our eyes wander.
Smiling, sometimes.
Our conductor sits up, and wakes
up the vintage daffodil bulb –
we look to her,
nod, sigh and find something to ache
for: layered browns, trimmed with black,
watched by blue and touched by yellow.
Soon, Later, Now,
There is white.
And we play.
Isn’t it rich?
Copyright © Isaac Boothman 2020
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