Betrayal

They danced over parquet floors buffed to a beeswax shine,
white square-weave muslin curtains blowing.
Ribboned soft shoes barely sounding,
sliding on honed wood.

Over stone flagged floors and square cork tiles.
Over dark-hued silk carpets, rough sisal rugs.
Over lush grass and sharp stubble, bare boards and dusty.

By bluegreen sea in yellow sunshine.
By prickly seagrass and banks of yellow flowers.

They danced lightly across the taut surface of shining water,
treading delicately to avoid breakage.

They waltzed gingerly across thinly cracked white frosted ice,
one growing as they danced.

Dancing across a loose rope bridge in single file,
moving carefully on rotting planks.
Wooden rhythm, less sway.
Calm synchronicity.

Stepping heavily over rocks which moved under foot,
the leader placed the small feet in unmarked yet specific places.

Into cities, over hot grey pavements,
by hard reflections.
Beside brick, under gutter.
Between concrete and glass,
against parallel winds in tall streets.
Under narrow strips of light and awnings in the shade.

Dancing over buildings, through windows and doors.
The leader's grip tightened.

Beyond the city, they danced along
long forgotten pathways into difficult terrain.

An oppressing hand held small shoulder.
Unequal.

^

Biography

Sheila Gorman lives and works in Dublin, writes poetry and short stories. Her short story, Provisions, won second prize in the recent North Tipperary Short Story competition and will be broadcast on local radio in the autumn. She has just completed her first film script.