The Fire Dancer
I imagine on still nights, very late
when the air is dark and sweet
he wanders from home
only half awake
Unwittingly drawn by the
crescent moon, or the hypnotic
circling of bats or the strong
assault of eucalypt scent
Enveloped by the night
he spins burning stars of fire
with his hands
communing with the smooth
wooden staff and the fragile light it supports
He is insubstantial
caught flickering between
reality and dream
his expressive dance
witnessed by the trees alone
What does he dream in this moment?
does his essence slip
deep into the earth
an ancient pulse
a yearning sensed, not unlike his own?
In time, his dance wavers
like a falling autumn leaf
and he rambles home
to wait, to dream again
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