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The Performance
The morning waited
for me to take my seat
on the foreshore bench to begin
its play, perform the piece
it had scripted just for me.
Opening
with a prelude of waves lifting
until gravity collapsed
their curling height and gulped
down their weight, and,
at stage right, rocks bursting
big watery bags of ocean
into exploding walls of foam.
Then there were magpies
holding chorus
in the nearby trees,
accompanying the moment
with an almost Elizabethan lilt
whilst seagulls hurled their
screeching taunts down
from the galleries above.
Little dogs went chasing balls
and children spun, unwinding
on wound up swings, bike riders
in black lycra passed in a blurr
and on a patch of lawn
beside the pavilion, three women
practicing tai chi.
And so the spectacle ran on
as if the morning was inventing
new sights and sounds
for the sake of drawing out time
to keep me captive in audience there,
the same as I used to do when,
as a child, I held concert
for my grandmother
on cold winter afternoons,
stagelit by a blazing fire
and love.
Copyright ©
Paul Willason
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