Splendid building from Victorian days,
it’s columns conduit music’s sweet ways.
The Town Hall, a cathedral, vast yet near
vaulted ceilings prelude jubilant cheer.
Excitedly come the musicophiles,
up grand stairs, we file with diligent smiles.
Tea cups and sandwiches neatly aligned,
sold in triangles, our hunger designed.
Settle in chairs, where the balcony chinks,
casting down glances, our shared souls link.
On top of the stage, the proud organ stands,
metal and wood wrought from man’s clever hands.
Out comes David Pipe, his suit soft and grey,
with purpose profound – to lead us away,
into spheres where Liszt’s divinity grows
while Bach’s magic melds through air as it flows.
Pipe sits at his bench, with keyboard in hand,
page-turner beside him, hair like soft sand,
she mirrors the statues, flutes set to play,
music unfolds, as a nun come to pray.
We sway as the audience, rapt in the sound,
delighted and stirred, in harmony bound,
some close their eyes while others stare high
hues begin shifting like dreams passing by.
From blue to rose blush, the hall is suffuse
which textures the air, the music perfuse.
The Fugue in G Minor erupts like a tide,
A cadenza rising, as spirits collide.
Like a duck he works, the spell he disrupts
“I've had my workout!” As laughter erupts.
Forty-five minutes, we linger in grace,
present and captured, in this sacred space.
In the many sorrows that lie in our hearts,
this music, this potion, refreshes each part,
for in notes that conjoin, comfort is ours,
the Lunchtime Concert, where cheer knows no hours.
