poetry diary

From open hand extending –
music;
from quiet music rising –
one step;
from patterned steps entrancing,
dancing;
from one dancer emerging –
new lines;
from shapes attention flowing –
outward.

To draw in the floating corps
of miracled ballerinas
as swans or roses perfect
and precise: lost on the edge
of human possibility, each
balanced between woman
and flower – precariously
safe in beauty; patterned numbers.

And in music, which fades now too
as this dancing, moving, tender
world; like a shoal of fishes,
turns with the tide to a brilliant sea.

*********

We went to see the opening night of the Nutcracker, performed by Birmingham Royal Ballet, last night. It was a wonderful classic ballet. It’s fifteen years since I last saw a ballet, but they seem to get easier to appreciate the older I get.

That curiosity of light
which seeks in newly empty space
bold reds and gold of yesterday’s
wistful, playful and unhurried leaves –
finds today pale memories.

Her colours now are yearnings –
damp efforts washing evening streets,
night-black branches and waiting clouds,
foreboding contemplative dusk.

Glorious and glowing yet,
no matter how she tries,
only holding, holding, holding back –
holding back the coming lonely winter nights.

***********

We get wonderful late afternoon light sometimes at this time of year. On Friday as I drove home it was particularly good, although this was also the week when all the trees seemed to lose their leaves and the autumn displays ended.

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