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  Maureen Weldon
   
     
On Being Asked To Write A Short -
          History About a Ballet Company'
 
Bleary eyed, she sees the summer trees
dancing to the lawn.
 
She has been writing all night
head down like clouds of silk
 
in an old yellow box - of programmes
and newspaper cuttings.
 
Now a sylph, a bluebird, a puppet;
swirling, jumping, pirouetting.
 
Or the ghost-woman in a red dress
remembering her last ball.
 
She takes a deep bow.
The orchestra stand. The audience clap.
 
From her bedroom window
the moon is gauze-like in a blue-pink sky.
 
The first birds are singing.
She breaths deeply the morning air
 
damp with pungent earth-smells,
and secrets like a lover's kiss.

 


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