Дата: 10-07-2010 | 22:29:19
I see her dance beside the hotel’s swimming pool.
A fitness instructor shrieks out commands.
A stocky fellow on a rickety stool
nurses his whisky and tries to avert his glance.
‘How can we know the dancer from the dance?’
The bar is teeming with patrons. An overstressed
barman hacks vehemently at lemons and limes.
I can make out her parents. Mother is dressed
for dinner, father engrossed in ‘The Financial Times’.
Engrossed in their aloofness, used to tidal waves
of pitying stares, deafening whispers and sighs,
forced to perform their own practiced moves,
choreographed despair, crafted resilience.
She is in her element, docile and content,
Wrapped up in music, mellowed in the balmy haze;
She’d leap into the sunshine but for the stocky gent
who keeps her pinned to the ground with his sorrowful gaze.
Лара Леггатт, 2010
Сертификат Поэзия.ру: серия 1142 № 81187 от 10.07.2010
0 | 1 | 1673 | 28.03.2023. 01:33:42
Тема: Re: The Dance Лара Леггатт
Автор Юрий Лукач
Дата: 11-07-2010 | 17:03:47
I blindly gawk at the uninhabited sky,
then look at the crowds around, their flying urge they smother,
'cause everybody is pinned to the ground by
if not one thing, then, beyond any doubt, the other.