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Now once again the Spring we see,
released from where dread Hades reigned,
Persephone shall dance with me,
Demeter’s sanction having gained,
beneath my ancient apple tree.

Pink tinted as the blossom there,
exulting now in rhythmic pleasure,
inviting dryads from the woods
to tread with us a joyous measure,
cavorting in the fragrant air.

Despite my nine and eighty years,
un danseur noble I shall be,
for I have watched Baryshnikov,
Petit, and Somes, to name but three –
all stars the ballet world reveres.

And from Lifar I’ve learnt the terms
Terpsichore would inculcate,
les battements, le soubresaut,
les grands jetés that elevate
l’entrechatthat skill confirms.

On second thought, I think I’ll sit,
as oft I did on magic nights
when tip-toed sylphides graced the stage
in white soft-tinged with violet lights –
my voiced excuse, I have no kit,
no leotard, blocked shoes, or tights!

T. C. Hudson

© T. C. Hudson.
This work may not be reproduced without prior permission of the author.

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