We are sitting circled here, meeting in hushed embrace,
and clutching our fond fragments of favourite verse;
longing to share the emotions we feel
should it be that our choices enjoy wider appeal.
The readings begin – some are bold and distinct.
Some are spoken softly; they are difficult to hear.
Some are jolly and cheerful, celebrating the festive season,
others sad or chaotic, signifying emotions beyond reason.
Suddenly the time comes to break for coffee.
Now the chairs lie empty islanded in space.
The room falls silent as the speakers depart
and the curtains are drawn back to where the shadows start.
Then a lone lady arrives to vacuum the room.
She breaks the spell and starts another of her choice,
preparing to clean the vacant floor.
But wait, we return to our chairs once more.
Where, I ask, is the poetry in this turn of events?
Does it lie in the contrast of scene and of mood?
What happened earlier, and do our feelings endure?
Do our passions survive – and how can we be sure?