Flamenco Dancer

Rich red
the sinuous dress
which curved round her hips
and flared
at the swirling hem.

The repetitive stamp
of her black boots,
the decisive click
of her castanets
at the ends of her raised arms,
and she swept the floor
with the watching crowd.

Sweet was the music,
sweet and deep,
and a mournful note
slipped underneath
and between and around
the rhythm, the rhythm, the rhythm.

And then she was gone
from the stage
from the town
and all the troupe with her,
but not from the brain
of the child I was.


NaPoWriMo Day 24