Feast of Fiddles

A poem inspired by a musical performance by a group of violinists

The bow of the violin traces a thread of music sewn into the air that holds it.
The audience absorbs a melody and an immense musical wave surges and transcends our human shore.

The haunting flute's tone collects our souls as they drop into the void of nothingness without a hope.
The clapping rhythm becomes the musicians' baton.

An intricate embroidered cloth is woven with depth and precision.
Fiddlers' bows make easy work of the complex pattern and are yet in perfect time.

Harmonies carrying our souls and hearts to a place high above the busy streets of Exeter on a summer-like Saturday evening in April.

Oh! Never shall it end but alas it must, and will.