Legong Dance 31/10/2003

The forest, a density of jewelled leaves
and fingers is salt-lit, crusted soundlessly,
by high-tide in the swift grey evening.

And fingers twitch,
at first it seems in sickness,
like the end of creatures,
shot for fun and sport,
but in the lantern light,
the lizard shadowed walls,
show elegance in speed,
a nervousness they turn
to grace and piety,
to celebrate a Pantheon.

I was tripped by dogs,
sleeping in the street,
seeming dead and dusty,
ignoring dance and sound.

But these women,
soundless, soft-shoed,
have walked like gods,
two inches over ground,
and turned to music.
Their fingers, leaves,
are stereo, repeating,
alternate, doubled
in the eyes like jade,
and cracking gems.


Their arms become
a deeper melody,
the rolling couplets
of the beating bronze,
detuned from each
to wow and flutter
with the sea-breeze;
the kite-laden wind
of every island.

Kotekan and kebyar,
make bodies abstract,
disconnected
from the world.
They fly like bats,
link bass metal
to the spirits,
make payments
to the earth,
insurance,
fire-damp,
banished,
ended.