They are mostly men,
Some wives tag along because
Its what we do.
The church has laid on tea and rich tea biscuits.
Some old dears and a young mousey lady
who looks completely out of place
boil the kettles and
offer biscuits around.
Small blue china mugs,
so small you couldn’t even
spit in it.
A hoard of organists have
Come to the church to see the Organ.
Nothing spectacular, local builder,
Two manuals. Its even got a Reed Stop,
An Oboe I believe?
Clad and cloaked in green macs,
with wafts of tweed and pipe smoke.
The rain makes such a cold
harsh eccleastical cave
warming and a relief.
Some come to listen to others play,
others sit around and natter about
their organs. Some moan about
Their organ builders, and how expensive
It seems to be to keep the King of Instruments
On its throne.
The classic pieces drift out,
A bit of Boellman’s Gothique Suite,
One of the younger chaps bashes out
A bit of Widor. But only a bit.
The schedule is tight. Woodbury is
over the hill and Terrance is not one
To be left in the rain waiting.
The hoard of organists depart, smiling and
Thankful that they’ll have a cup of tea
when they reach the next church.