The Dancer

After dark, in the half light of street lights
I saw, huddled round in the midst of the dark night’s
Melancholy, those who were caught in his haze,
Who clutching bags and coats, took a moment to gaze

At the dancer. I joined them, sunk into the crowd
To witness his movements, this moment allowed
To spark in the depths of a cold night’s gloom,
With one arm below and one arm in bloom.

And tracing the line of his arm’s slow path,
Like the wing-like trail of a woman’s scarf,
As though leaving a snail’s trail of light,
I forgot about the passing night.