The Memory of Water and The Dancer by Bobby Stevenson

The Memory of Water

There are times when I sit

Awash with the heat of the day

Nothing stirs in my head

But the scent of a flower

In some distant meadow

And there are times when I sit

And in some secret way

I breathe in a molecule of someone's breath

Long since gone

And my head sparks with their memories

In vapour and water.

 

The Dancer

Perhaps it was the only creative
Thing she would ever do
Dancing there in the moonlight
Amongst the beautiful chaos.

Perhaps it was the only selfish
Thing she would ever do
Swinging and jigging to her own tune
For one last dance

Would they see a smile on her face
When they came?
And then she wondered who would cut the rope and
Bring her down from the tree.