Surf Dancer
Less tied to, one might try as a guess,
A day of precisely choreographed stress
In the ring
Of the Spanish Riding School
(sill lingering
in every perfectly placed
and finely turned limb)
High stepping she
Runs to the surf transformed
As vivid as our morning bed
A tether slipping thoroughbred
Her copper mane
Scooped loose by the wind
As a firestorm of rain.
Her beauty is melding now
With that of the ocean
As liquid as love
Has formed her to be
As fine, familiar and fluent as
The honey coloured crests
The tumbling torrents of caress
Of unbound and surf seeking
Sensual memory.
© John Mackie, Findhorn and Nairn, July 2009
