Isabella Mead

Merging the Colour

You glide streamlined through the eddy of dancers
swirling your movements to echo theirs. As you pass
they spiral outwards, circles spread wider
and wider around you; closing like clotted
arteries as I approach, my movements upsetting

the rhythm of droplets on the dance-floor. But still
I weave against the cascade, following your flow.
You don’t see me, you as the spinning centre
of the echoing shapes you make, the whirlpools
of dance. Perhaps it’s even occurred to you,

water assumes a reflective hue when a mass of droplets
are thrust together under the sky. Maybe you
like to think you could drift to the ceiling now,
for their dance to coil to yours. Maybe it’s true,
maybe they can reflect your colour, but only I

can merge into it. Can’t you tell? Can’t you feel
me now? I am mingling with your breath,
drifting around your respiratory system;
passing through the tiny sweat-holes in your skin;
clinging to your eyelashes, waiting for your tears