Feroza Seervai |
Her blood is on fire,
Her head in the heavens,
Her hip gyrating:
Eva is dancing Flamenco.
The tap of her heart
Is quick rifle fire
In crescendo
Rising to thunder.
Her sinuous arms,
Her sensuous curves,
Create a brilliance
Of spangles,
A blazing heat,
A sunburst of passion,
A spiral of ascent
Into a hypnotic tango.
The guitars
And the hands clapping,
The percussion drums
Beat the rhythm.
The singers yearn
For the sun,
And the flute
Is piercing sweet.
The audience responds
In wild abandon,
Matching the thunder
On the boards
With their thunder
Of applause.
The clapping and the calls,
The excitement, the joy,
Are deafening.
A new book arrives - Folio Society's
Book of Greek Myths and Legends.
On the cover, Leda and her swan.
Mother calls from Bedford:
Come over, we'll have an English tea
At The Swan by the river.
You can't miss the hotel:
A plaster swan, a giant,
Announces the location.
The parking is full
We must drive on.
Then we walk, flashing smiles
At the rowing teams
Of girls, or men
In long boats
On the fast-flowing Ouse.
Tea is scrumptious,
Served in tiered plates:
Two kinds of sandwich,
Hot scones, with cream and jam,
Fresh cake, chocolate, fruit.
That, Grandma, I am told,
Is English tea.
We sip tea, laugh and chat,
Mother, daughter, grand-daughter.
It is after six when we leave,
Walking, watching the swans,
Scores of white swans, and a grey one or two,
Across the water, on the green.
Ducks swim against the tide,
Serene, two swans glide,
Necks arching, wings tucked in.
Suddenly,
The space between the banks,
Eight feet above the water,
Is full of wings,
Huge white wings in rhythmic swing,
That make their own wind,
Attendant upon long straining necks
Twenty arrows piercing wing-filled air
As twenty swans came homing.
My soul must be homing
Beyond the heavens,
Before I forget that sight.