There were twenty five of them;
I counted.
Assorted black
and white of men’s
shirts, women’s arms.
The timpani poised, waiting
and the trumpets
tipped free of moisture;
lips puckered at flutes,
bows resting or weaving
a swathe of sound, back and forth –
the violins, violas, cellos,
basses all like needles at
a sewing bee.
Sitting forward to be
closer to the music,
to swill it like good wine
before swallowing,
it was your golden hair,
your surprising
dark eyebrows,
your delicate fingers
that kept drawing me
in to the magic.
Then the conductor,
with a confident flourish
and a sharp tap of his baton,
drew you all together
weaving this cacophony
of sound into a web
of Mozart’s making.
And you flicked your long golden hair.