Ceili Dancing

The Dancing Man

For J

Her poem about you

Pale faced, lying in a hospital bed

Tube fed

It’s not how I remember you

At a Ceili in a Parish hall in Sligo.

You were The Dancing Man

Promenading to and fro

7’s to the right, rise and grind

7’s to the left, grind and sink

Making stars in both directions.

Or wild haired and spouting your doctrine

of the Divine in rocks and sod,

Striding across landscapes

like some latter day Shelley

or Bronte hero.

Women fell in love with you wherever you went.

“He should carry a Government Warning Label

like a cigarette packet,” one of them said.

You made your own then, your fingers tuned

to the pinch, roll and flick of it.

No cigarettes now. And you don’t even miss them.

Clipped wings, what you miss is the buzz and swing

Forward, diagonal, set in place

Threading your needle

To The Haymaker’s jig.