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D.A. Prince

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Dance Class


It was heel toe one two three turn
and shuffling to arithmetic and arguing
about who would lead this time, until
the student came, and recognised
our concentration on the waltz’s triangle,
the mutterings, our plimsolls lined up to escape
Miss Taylor’s no no no.
Not to be trusted with the heavy weights
of grammar, or imponderables
like filling leaking baths or trains
racing at variable speeds,
she eyed our leaden feet, and promised:
trees.

So half a term the loud winds dance us, shake
and bend and whip and whirl and storm and sway
our green limbs through their seasons.
Barefoot, with cardigans reversed on branching arms,
their buttons wriggling up our spines,
we let our twiggy fingers ripple
into leaves. We understand
the pulse and rhythm of a living wood, our toes
alive and tuned in to the earth. Just half a term

and in stamped the Gay Gordons. Mothers bought
new plimsolls, complaining
how we’d grown, but pleased
with our Veletas, our stiff Skaters’ Waltz.

 

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