THE DRUM, THE DANCER,

THE AUDIENCE

Black bin liner, inside out,

filled with wind, anchored

at the rim of a cast iron bin.

Close your eyes.

It is a snare drum playing

polyrhythms to the morning.

Accents, flams, ruffs,

and silences that hold the sounds

together, keep them free.

Open your eyes.

The dancer takes the place

of your imagination. Clicking

fingers, intakes of breath

as each highlight flashing

momentarily denotes a change

in time signature, testing

the concentration, captivating.

Better go soon. The commuters

are almost here, with their spoilsport

tactic of getting in the way,

not realising these dances-in-the-wind

will never, cannot ever be repeated.