Thursday 15 February 2018

The Dancer


She dances, oh she dances
she tiptoes away in echoes
Her blue cotton dress is
a murmuration of sparrows
she darts and she flits and she comes
She forgets where she chances from
But not a glance, not a glance
In her ears ring sweet folk songs
so she dances and in her dance
swallows and waves in throngs
like tumbling pebbles on the shore
crashing and crushing and drowning
the shells, the music, the troubadour
Her quick legs flash like arrows
lance the wind like thunder
She whirls and swirls and she sees
the quiff lip of the cliff ahead
where every step stops to tread
And in one, two, quick embraces
kisses the ground she just left
And dances, oh, she dances.

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