A listless mirror-ball, a pair of limpid
ceiling fans is what I can recall, there
were some random streamers hung
defying age and gravity more than
creating atmosphere – balloons in
cheerless clumps, wrinkled and
deflated cases numbered more than
those still plump with air.
This was where I learned to dance.
The gramophone was ancient but it
played with power and clarity, our
patient dance instructor well aware
the adolescents in her care impressed
by meetings of the flesh at heart,
and dancing rarely intervened to
damp that flame. But still I learned
to dance.
For years I heard the music played,
heard her voice as it conveyed
essential beat, the placement of the feet,
the movement of the hands
and where to face our heads;
for me although I never made the
grade with any of the girls I can
still place my feet with dancer’s care.
© I.D. Carswell, 1972
