Here’s to a third day of dancing, this time English Morris dancing from the Cotswold and Border Morris traditions…dancing with bells on!
Dancing Shoes with Bells on
Tatters coats flying, white hankies aloft, all our feet are leaping.
We count the rhythm, sing the words
Of songs my cousins sang before the war,
Of songs my granny would have sung
(Had she not been quite so ladylike!)
And the great drum echoes the pulse of joy;
And Jim on the squeezebox pumps & grins;
And Bev oompahs away on the trombone.
Julie-Ann whoops wildly while Patrick saws away in perfect time…
“You’re on the fiddle again!” we cry, on cue.
Melodies make our hearts rise up.
My left foot falls, and so do theirs; my arms are raised,
And so are theirs, dipping & whirling, stepping & smiling.
The bells whisper & twinkle, ping, rattle & ring.
Red ribbons & purple ruffles fly.
© Lizzie Ballagher
lizzieballagherpoetry 