A Reminder of Dancing Days

It was a cold day and a rush hour that packed the train.
I'm travelling home, tomorrow's a labouring day.
A winter in London, not white snow but a drizzling rain.
The commuters sit introverted; engrossed in a page.
The train window shows a coat, it shows a wave
But it conceals the identity of an old friends face.

If she had changed I would still have recognised her,
Years had passed, but I could still remember;

Brilliant white clouds against a bright blue prop,
That was Giselle; as the dancers moved across.
Or the sun burnished sand that lights a backdrop
As a woman in African red moves from corner to corner.
Perhaps a fire of red, orange and black
Ballerinas from Espanola.

I was Sparticus once. I leapt for all I was worth.
Irik Mukhamedov lost eleven pounds when he did his.

Corps de Ballet came flitting onto the stage.
Peach dresses flicking fuetes in perfect poise.
The movements are quick, footwork is light.
Too quick for the untrained eye.

As a group we toured, staying with families; an experience for a twelve year old.
Just a boy in the Czeck Republic.
I danced in Prague and I slept in Ostrava.

Harlow was host to all this.
Not as colourful as a show.
Here the wind picks up litter,
Into miniature tornadoes;

That swirled in concrete corners
As if to remind me that

A child it seemed I had been; innocent though distorted.
It was a time of growing up; though I'm not so sure I liked it.

*

I found her in the second carriage down
A reunion of friendship for me, a fountain of memory ignored over time.
I remember dancing with her;
A trust in her, her trust in mine.

To talk of days of dancing;
In an empty church at Theresa's,
In the studio of the Playhouse.
Finding out about the others.

We talked as the train ran rough;
Along the tracks to take us out.