The Concert

A hushed silence descends,
As if a thick blanket had floated down from the Rafters to smother one hundred sleepers.
The last coughs and splutters, the last mutters,
The last mumbles and fumbles,
Rufflings and shufflings on seats.
The tuning notes, the bow strokes and exhalations,
The puffings and huffings, the tappings and slapping On drum skins and tins,
Music stands and clammy hands,
All stand still.
All din dissolves into soundless, shapeless space.
This time is timeless.
The moment before the beginning,
Between the question and the answer,
The end of the world.
For now, life leaves off.
The stirrings of thoughts are banished,
Restlessness rests, succumbing to a poised lethargy.
All oft treaded tensions slacken.
A new anticipation.
We hover over a precipice of discovery, waiting to Fall or to float.
We wait.
No one can claim to know what’s coming.
We wait.
For a few snatched seconds all are equal.
We wait.
Breath caught, pin drop silence.
We wait
We hope.

The baton is raised.