Singing the African Sanctus in Yorkshire.
A gentle lift of the conductor’s hands
brings us to our feet – no longer strangers
who flocked in from all over,
climbed to this high room, milled round,
flapped off raincoats, settled down –
but, suddenly, a choir.
Eight spaced drumbeats - then
he releases us to ride our breath
up and down the wide sky of three octaves.
Plainsong explodes, ‘Sanctus, sanctus.’
everything’s holy: Egyptian wedding flutes,
Acholi cows, a milking song,
Sufis chanting in the Massa mountains,
the long, undulating flight of the call to prayer.
Hosannas thunder –
the basses off on their own –
while the rest of us just about hold on
among rattles, drums, ululating voices
and everything rises into the rafters
like rooks circling at dusk, layers of birds
folding and unfolding over trees and fields,
the council houses, the Creamery,
while a few break from the mass,
wheel off towards the hills,
are gathered back.
brings us to our feet – no longer strangers
who flocked in from all over,
climbed to this high room, milled round,
flapped off raincoats, settled down –
but, suddenly, a choir.
Eight spaced drumbeats - then
he releases us to ride our breath
up and down the wide sky of three octaves.
Plainsong explodes, ‘Sanctus, sanctus.’
everything’s holy: Egyptian wedding flutes,
Acholi cows, a milking song,
Sufis chanting in the Massa mountains,
the long, undulating flight of the call to prayer.
Hosannas thunder –
the basses off on their own –
while the rest of us just about hold on
among rattles, drums, ululating voices
and everything rises into the rafters
like rooks circling at dusk, layers of birds
folding and unfolding over trees and fields,
the council houses, the Creamery,
while a few break from the mass,
wheel off towards the hills,
are gathered back.