Monday, 9 July 2012

The Memory of Water and The Dancer by Bobby Stevenson

The Memory of Water


There are times when I sit
Awash with the heat of the day
Nothing stirs in my head
But the scent of a flower
In some distant meadow

And there are times when I sit
And in some secret way
I breathe in a molecule of someone's breath
Long since gone
And my head sparks with their memories
In vapour and water.



 
The Dancer

Perhaps it was the only creative
Thing she would ever do
Dancing there in the moonlight
Amongst the beautiful chaos.

Perhaps it was the only selfish
Thing she would ever do
Swinging and jigging to her own tune
For one last dance

Would they see a smile on her face
When they came?
And then she wondered who would cut the rope and
Bring her down from the tree.
 

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