Gregory O'Brien
The non-singing seats
In memory of Maxwell Fernie, who, from the church organ, conducted the choir at St Mary of the Angels, Wellington, for forty years until his death in 1999
It was air that gave the grand thing
life. Like a sailboat
or newborn, it was sprung
to song, drawing us up
the encircling staircase
to its loft
where the choirmaster directed
his forest of pipes.
You should sing as though running down
a grassy slope,
we were told, and here it was
our three sons drifted
gull-like, amidst the rackety cylinders,
and came to know this world
by measures. We were all ears,
aloft, and this way,
mouths firmly shut, we were taught
to sing—Max’s head
a rising sun above
the keyboard
feet as busy upon the pedals
as a pedestrian
taking Allenby Steps
two at a time.
Mid-song, I would lift my children
so high
above my head they became
the tallest people
in the world. And so it was,
we were, and will remain
running down a green slope
towards a town called
Palestrina or Johann Sebastian
or simply an outline
of Wellington airport
embalmed in fog,
planes unable to land
and us, the chosen few
about to lift off.
