A breathless waiting fills expectant air
for that first almost silent sound to flood
the room with light, as bow and strings unite
to raise a vibrant voice to lofty heights;
descending to a rich full-bodied tone
that soothes the senses, harmonizing in
a symphony of sound then gathers pace
to race, as rising, reaching quavers soar,
straining, stretching, seeking more; it hovers.
Gliding softly on the wind it flutters;
Melancholic music softly weeping
And with a final fading note, it dies.
Copyright © Gill Wyatt 2012