The dance

Poem by Dorothy Lindsay

Not like Matisse’s ‘Dance’, as Touch
for now, is merely a hopeful thing,
and for them, not a dancing ring
of five; nor, it seems, just
communal friendship,
but something more:
a longing to embrace, but never quite
achieving that closeness.

This Dance, not by the hands
of a creative genius, but by Nature’s
own, working like a puppeteer,
perhaps with a smile, because
her hands working up that breeze,
also paint the sky deep blue, causing
much splattering of the day,
with brightness and heat.

And so, the Poplars-pair, lanky
and beautiful, in their newly-sprung
green, now fully clothed, danced
in unison: forward and backward,
sometimes pausing, when only
their leaves move gently; some,
their green glaze much lighter,
where the sun hits brightly.

The pair’s heads and shoulders,
romantically coming close to touch,
but never quite there; not today,
but perhaps on another, the hope
for Touch will become reality.

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