The stage was set, two actors to the fore,
No masks of tragedy or comic worn.
Parts were learned, as too, the orchestra and score,
Awaiting now crescendo for their turn.
Love was heard
in notes that spilled
and spiralled
and rose to rafters, to the gallery,
where eyes strained
to figures poised for action and their part,
to faces on the stage,
too distant,
too abstract,
too indeterminate for those vaulted there to clearly see.
The music fades,
a silence waits around in tones of hushed expectancy.
The one begins to speak.
And halts.
Love lingers in the air,
pulses,
settled on plush chairs,
in stalls,
in balconies.
Nothing can compare to rapture heard.
Say not a word.
He takes her hand and draws her closely to a kiss,
Deepens dulcet depth still lingering.
Only this.
To standing ovation.
No single word.
A bow.
Departing hand in hand.
Stage left.
A play enacted perfectly.
scottishmomus 