The girls are old now, I suppose — the dancers.
Once they were young as spun sun and milky moon:
With flashing eyes to capture eyes,
Black hair that gleamed and scattered light and sparks,
All whirled away from shoulders glistening in the sultry air,
Slim feet that flew like finches to the crashing beat,
A kiss flung wide for childish love they threw
Themselves and all the world.
Sometimes when I stand outside at night
And watch the stomach of a low cloud glow,
That far away they still awake and that
No barrier is there but air and sea,
I think of them.
But the girls are old now
And that’s a different kind of barrier, I think.