Creative Works
A bit like Tai Chi
The sea moves rhythmically
Ebbing and flowing
The dancing beachcomber
He dreams and schemes as his eyes surf the tide.
I will strip off, lard up, and swim to France.
The French will see I have nothing to hide –
ma raison d'être est toujours la danse.
She dances en pointe on the esplanade –
uses the back of a bench as a barre.
The beachcomber praises her promenade –
greets her with an improvised port de bras,
And slides sideways to match her glissade.
She moves to his right and pointes him away,
and retreats with a battement petit.
Dancing sanderlings, très très avant-garde,
tiptoe in waves in a corps de ballet.
He cannot compete and exits the beach.
If any poem strikes a chord with you, tell me. Only I will see it.
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