Tuesday, February 14, 2012

'Dance Terrorist' by Nick Bryson (2004)

I wrote this a fair number of years ago having strode from Belfast to Cork with dance conviction trailing in my wake.


I seek out safe-houses,
Grass-clean cubbyholes
Entwined into hillsides.
Calmly lit by the mirror-lake
In streams of unintimidating
Irish sunlight.

We are not gunrunners
But dancers who strut and swoon,
A wealth of antics, frantically
Whispering thoughts into ears
To astound ourselves,
And eachother.

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