Segue

In the quiet hush of a room when the lights dim,
a subtle sigh of the night, you hear the cue –
the thin, silver thread that pulls the scene
from one story to the next, a graceful segue.

Like a tide that meets the shore in gentle hush,
it lifts the cadence of thought, pours over rhythm,
a bridge not born of stone but of breath and hush,
where the hush of one act becomes another limb.

We speak of transitions as it modulates,
a thread that ties the rhythm of verbs and humor,
in music, speech or the flick of a page,
a, simply, a quiet hand that smooths the space.

The analytic mind reads it as a logic,
a transition ballet that keeps the plot unsnarled –
a timeline that insists it is all in motion,
a calendar of bright moments caught in one.

The British mind will note that the word means “from one thing into another swiftly, consistently.”
A stage‑hand wending a drum or a chord, making sense of time,

A talent to move the mind without a break,
staining the calendar with a bright elongated tear.

So let the musical leviathan breathe in measure,
let the conversation wane, cross into a fresh herein,
Because the gentle legong of a segue, our dear whole,
is the quiet band that holds the promise of the flight to come, the tomorrow that begins again.