I find myself posting this poem at the end of January – the 27 th , Holocaust Memorial Day. So much has been said, dwelt upon and shown – absolutely rightly – about this particular eightieth anniversary. I offer here a description of a solitary player of music at that place – music, the most abstract of all the arts. It could be suggested paradoxically that the abstract may not represent the worst way to approach the most real, most grounded of events. I don't know. I do know that February, and life itself, lies ahead, for which I give thanks. Perhaps it's best that no more be said now. Double Sarabande in 9/8 from Bach’s Partita No. 2 in D minor for Solo Violin Before he began there was silence. Now as he follows the lines the Sarabande accompanies him. He proceeds with care placing his feet upon those old sleepers sunken and soaked avoiding the ballast and cinders. The quavers are harnessed in triplets rising and falling as t...