The Dance

On Carnaby Street, we do a dance. 

Hope, skip, click of our shoes.

We’re unaware of the story we’re telling. 

The street is alive as we merry our way to our destinations.

Possessed with generous anticipation.

The air hums as we revolve around one other

Shoulders clashing, pick-pockets snatching.

We twist and twirl as we weave and waver in and out of each other’s way. 

Some of the dancers journeys are not as important as others. 

We scurry and hurry our performance along the street. 

The pricey shops and polished pubs make for a wonderful stage. 

But waltzes become stumbles, and foxtrots become shoves.

Our show is coming to an end.

Darkness creeps in as the curtains fall, the pitter-patter dissolves. 

I curtsy to my fellow unsuspecting dance partners. 

They’ve removed their dancing shoes, the pantomime is over.

 The next unknowing cast sift their way through the paths.

Their cabaret begins, subconsciously and unknowing.

The stage of Carnaby will be filled, infinitely

The dance is never ending.