Here she comes, a silhouette,
She’ll dance ’til dusk is done,
Through gilded gums, freshly wet,
She’ll absorb the sinking sun.
What nature here creates,
She’ll draw upon that source,
In looping figure-eights,
She’ll trace the ribbon’s course.
With feather-like finesse,
She’ll ride the evening breeze,
Light-footed as a princess,
She’ll adorn this glade of trees.
. Born to dance, she’s her mother’s child,
. So it’s not by chance, she’s like-wise styled.
© Tim Grace, 28 January 2011
To the reader: Summer evenings. Warm shower wets the gums. Sun sets. Leaves turn to gold. Band plays an encore. Last note bids farewell. The day is done. The dance is done; for all but one. Free of business, a child calls her grandmother to skip. They do the last dance; as if it was their first. Two ribbons … one path home.
To the poet: On the edge of sentimental; a soft fall from grace. There are some scenes that need a delicate treatment, they are of themselves romantic, and touched with love. What rescues the sentimental poet is technique. Not so besotted that all sense has been lost. Not so overwhelmed that control has been forsaken. I quite like the discipline of every second line beginning with ‘She’ll’ followed be a verb: dance, absorb, draw, trace, ride and adorn.