Perfect ‘A’

The perfect A, played softly on the oboe
As the orchestra takes their seats.
Violins, first to tune up, followed by their colleagues.
A cacophony of scales and arpeggios.

The audience waits, settling into their seats.
Soft conversations start to fade,
All anticipating great things.
Soft breath, a flutter in the chest.

The lights go dim
And whispers turn to silence
Until the conductor appears
To polite applause.

The air hangs heavy
With thoughts of delights to come.
Silence almost deafening
As expectation builds.

A single deep but gentle cello note
Whispers through the galleries
To echo round the stalls
And back to the orchestra pit.

Collective breath held in readiness.
A rumble of thunder on the kettle drums,
Soft, at first, as in the distance,
Builds to a roar as the cello takes the lead.

Without warning, the stage is lit
Revealing performers already in place.
The stage is set. The concert begins.
We can breathe again.

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