The Dance

Sunday 18th November 2018 9:36 pm

The Dance

The dark dances as it tangles with the light.
A slow waltz performed at every dusk and dawn.
Shadows rising and falling,
swaying in perfect rhythm to a silent tune.

A single chair in a glass prison;
spoon clinking the side of the cup, as its contents are slowly stirred.
So slowly; each swirl revealing visions of days gone by.
Frail in body but not mind,
you watch the dance as the day unfolds.

You sit silently; so still amongst the dance.
Strange shapes appear, dissipating quickly,
your arms outstretched unable to grasp them.
Too much effort, so tired now.

The day dawns, its light illuminating your features,
once so beautiful now so delicate.
Beauty born of contentment.
A smile plays around your lips;
memories of long ago days.

Slipping into a restful slumber you dream.
A young couple stroll in a park where laughter abounds.
A sigh slips quietly from your lips,
suddenly shaken from your rest you rise;
slowly but with purpose.

Your laboured steps faltering as you walk.
An old sepia photo of a couple sits proudly on a table,
reaching out you pull it to you; gently as you would a child.
A moment captured forever, love shines clearly; fresh and new.

As gently as you held your treasure, you set it down once more.
Turning quietly you return to your chair.

The house rings with children's laughter,
dishes clatter, the day begins.
They do not see you sat in your chair.
You are but a shadow in the dance.

Comments

raypool

Tue 20th Nov 2018 21:04

Entrancing with its hints and suggestions without absolute revelation, leaving us in a dream Taylor. An excellent poem that transports us and at the end sort of comes home. A clear leader in your body or work I reckon.

Ray

John Marks

Tue 20th Nov 2018 14:40

There is a lilt to the piece which I like a lot:a ghost, an elderly lady, a presence behind the curtains, a young girl sensing her future? You leave it open - showing not telling is, for me, the essence of poetry. Your poem has something of the mystery of Charles Causley's poem 'Eden Rock'.

They are waiting for me somewhere beyond Eden Rock:
My father, twenty-five, in the same suit
Of Genuine Irish Tweed, his terrier Jack
Still two years old and trembling at his feet.
My mother, twenty-three, in a sprigged dress
Drawn at the waist, ribbon in her straw hat,
Has spread the stiff white cloth over the grass.
Her hair, the colour of wheat, takes on the light.
She pours tea from a Thermos, the milk straight
From an old H.P. sauce-bottle, a screw
Of paper for a cork; slowly sets out
The same three plates, the tin cups painted blue.
The sky whitens as if lit by three suns.
My mother shades her eyes and looks my way
Over the drifted stream. My father spins
A stone along the water. Leisurely,
They beckon to me from the other bank.
I hear them call, ‘See where the stream-path is!
Crossing is not as hard as you might think.’
I had not thought that it would be like this.
Charles Causley
‘Eden Rock’

<Deleted User> (18118)

Mon 19th Nov 2018 15:40

'A single chair in a glass prison'
Wonderful lines in this.
Wonderful, poignant poetry.

Hannah

Hugh

Mon 19th Nov 2018 09:36

Pictures around the house incite our memories to flow,
As into the past we frequently do go.

Big Sal

Mon 19th Nov 2018 03:10

The way you structured the words in this piece is superb. Really excellent rhythm of imagination by picking up on all the subtle hints and words of longing.

If I may be so bold, I'd like to say that your writing continues to improve every day. (Not like it was ever bad, mind you)?

Jon Stainsby

Mon 19th Nov 2018 01:31

Beautiful.

Martin Elder

Sun 18th Nov 2018 22:49

Ah memories sweet memories. memories to be cherished!
Well put Taylor, nicely said
Nice one

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The Dance

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