Watching ballet in mother carey's kitchen

As I descend
I trust my life
to this nylon thread.
Below the white foam hypnotises;
another world
where surface equals vertical,
green transforms to white and grey,
where gulls and jackdaws
wheel and screech
and tiny fish
weave their silver paths
through deep, purple pools

I run the ropes through fingers,
commit to tantric dance,
edges, cracks,
and rock protrusions.
feet smeared, body twisted,
my universe collapsed to
seven feet of overhang
casting shadow.

I stretch, clasp, swing in space.
My heel curves around my head.
I pull, slap, latch a pocket,
pull again and I can stand.

I breathe.

The last few feet go by with ease,
my sequenced movements dance
in perfect choreography

I take my perch,
a grin across my face,
and my ankles dangling,
languid in the void.

The ballerina enters;
her dance, on fingers of wind,
her backdrop, sea, sky welded;
Eyes lock, wings tuck
She stoops unseen.
A thud,
a flurry of feathers
and a pigeon for her table

My head is bowed
in admiration.

Chris Wyatt 11/01/07