HIS MOTHER DANCES
Crouched on the stairs, he sees her dance:
her feet glide over lino squares,
the wireless playing sweet and low.
She waltzes, as though in a trance,
alone, amidst pans, table, chairs,
white kitchen sink: her eyes aglow.
Those slender arms grasp empty air:
her partner is invisible.
She circles, sweeps and murmurs words,
song lyrics or a lover’s prayer.
What seems to him incredible
is how the music, like small birds,
whirls round his sleepy, tousled head
and makes him sad. The dancing stops.
His mother, hungry for romance,
settles for washing plates instead;
talks to herself, while he eavesdrops.
His father never liked to dance.
Lovely imagery!
ReplyDeleteComing from a photographer, that's praise indeed!
ReplyDeleteLovely, lovely poem.
ReplyDeleteThanks Peter. Good to received feedback.
DeleteSuper concept, I too loved the image you have painted. I find the break / follow on between the second and third verses both distruptive and powerful, most unusual.
ReplyDeleteThank you John. It takes a writer to pick up on these little quirks of mine.
DeleteI love this Richard partly because it conjures memories, of myself dancing around my small kitchen as a young mum with three small children. The imagery is succinct and poignant, simple and beautiful
ReplyDeleteThank you, Trudie. This one seems to have appealed to quite a few people.
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