old men dancing
By Coolhermit
- 840 reads
old men dancing
I sit on a rough settle
in the shade of an ancient oak
outside an inn
watching crooked men,
in hand-me-down
black suits and hats
and polished shoes
gathering sedately
forming a shuffling line
throat clearing and crow cries
fill the square
with broken crockery melody
a numinous silence,
a pregnant hush
a trombone plays
the men begin
a mournful song
crackety yet graceful,
they make a circle,
a nodding, dipping whirligig,
of once-strong arms
and walking sticks
no dervish troupe
spun with such precision
the circle peels open
with deliberate uncurling
then curling
and uncurling again
a tortoise choral train
snaking a dusty lane
till swallowed
in the twilight of trees
impressed, I drain my glass
behind the musician
the black stick-figures crest a hill
dancing a stately sarabande
the breeze carries word snatches
nothing I can understand -
but they sound mournful to me
I signal the waiter,
‘why the procession?
a celebration? or a lamentation?’
the waiter shrugs,
‘there is no reason... it is what they do... another?'
I nod - my glass is filled.
- Log in to post comments
Comments
Quirkily enchanting
Nice poem. I love that phase 'crackety yet graceful', and several other intriguing images in there.
- Log in to post comments
Pick of the Day
This is our Facebook and Twitter Pick of the Day! Please share/retweet if you like it
Picture Credit: https://www.flickr.com/photos/97544179@N00/3500580079
(coolhermit - the picture has been added for publicity purposes; feel free to change or delete it)
- Log in to post comments
Evocative piece. Makes me
Evocative piece. Makes me think of "old" Italy for some reason. Great read.
- Log in to post comments