I stand behind the crowd.
I watch.
I monitor.
The backs of forty heads
Rocking in synchronised laughter
As act after act stirs up mock jollity.
Hands clap in supportive applause
As another man tests his ability to sing
And ours to listen.
Then the stage is taken
By a young Russian maiden
Or am I mistaken?
Laughter, nervous laughter
We don’t know what to expect
We don’t know yet
Then she starts to sing
Babushka
And behind those Slavic tones
A murmur, a gentle hum
Seeps out of the audience
Making a safe nest.
For the first time all week
Forty men become
A community at last
And it is all I can do not to cry.