Colours on Show

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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