POEM: At The Festival Hall: A vibraphonist I recall as large - and splendidly dissolute - is playing standards on a grand piano - dwarfed by ceilings, - and a voice I think I've heard of - sings in a floral print of pleats. - The audience talks politely and applauds - while I search for you - and something to eat. - She is singing God Bless the Child - and I wonder whether or not - to prop the bar and wait it out. - She is good in the wrong place, - wine's bouquet in an empty glass, - singing inside heads, - between meetings, - of what is almost grasped - beyond the conversation. NOTE: This poem first appeared in 'Envoi, No. 115, October 1996'and then in 'What Moves Moves' by Paul McLoughlin (Shoestring Press, 2004). It refers to a lunchtime Foyer jazz gig. For layout purposes, the poem is in two stanzas. The first has nine lines, the second eight. (i.e. the single word lines here belong to the line before - sorry to fuss, but ...)The vibraphonist I refer to was the late Bill Le Sage.