Dances with Strangers

You walk along an English High Street

and dance with the first stranger

who doesn’t look deranged.

Their face shows uneasy surprise,

as if you are telling the story of how your garden gate

was once treated for depression with creosote.

You stare at the only patch of blue

in an English sky,

willing it to spread, like a virus which eats grey clouds.

There is no sign of your erstwhile dancing partner.

Apologising to the pavement, you get down on one knee

and propose to a phrase of birdsong

whose reply you cannot decipher.

You dance with all the mad thoughts in your head

until their feet ache.

You dance and you dance and you dance

in case the music is still playing.