Member-only story
Bosom heaving, dress a shimmying, her body is rolling.
The woman is bowling over…
‘cheeks’ moulding and bruising the air.
Tonight heavy souls are falling.
She sees no eyes
Hears no spies
Listens to no cries.
She is lost inside the rhythm devine:
Full of the joys of life,
Feet a stomping,
Pounding the wooden floor.
Legs moving like the rail wheels on a track:
Click clack, clack click, clickity clack: a rhythm is composed.
She is heaving, stands proud, a figure to admire… ‘Rolls like thunder.
Standing tall, with prowess, arms stretched out.
Eyes closed, she knows every step rehearsed.
Like the pregnant Madonna, she rolls over the hill — the full moon in bloom…she melts your heart, glistening like chocolate on a hot day.
The light catches her dress — a spectacle — the fringes gleam. She moves with grace,
modulating her pace, her steps she retraces, heals clicking — she clips the floor. So is the passion of the dance.
