Through the airlock we went

us three with sheet music, poetry

bosom close,

 

with music more ancient than modern

rendered lightly ,

male and female singers

with me on piano accompaniment.

 

Sitting perfectly upright our mentor

bright chirrup of a lady critic,

hours spent in refining this

tumulus of talent.

 

Between songs the silence was a shock

an unnerving tapestry of confusion

and elation,

their faces working endlessly.

Some slept like babies, sedated.

 

Odd smells filled the air

nurses dwelt at doorways

others holding frail hands, whispering.

 

The structured afternoon dug in like the

Greathead shield. with songs from

The Student Prince, Noel Coward,

Franz Lehar,

In a Monastery Garden infilled

by the grout of Chopin,

Lord Andrew Lloyd Webber,

arpeggios, cascades

inaccurate fusillades.

 

Finally I read out the proclamatory poem

like a funereal oyez.

A wailing began, a rocking,

a wheelchair hastened away.

The words lay heavy with disrespect

 

but I had learnt that criticism

has to be conscious

what more could I expect?

 

The airlock opened at last

a prayer for the future released,

eyelids dropped as the past closed in

at the end of a musical feast.