O ballet,
The master a boisterous springtime wind.
Under his instruction, young bodies
Curve, bend and arms move the porte de bras.
The dandelions pirouette in skirts
Of yellow tarlatan.
Premier ballerinas strive to
Become one with the pink peach-blossom,
Caught from off her bough and flung
Across the floor among the corps-ballet.
Three robins and a cello-throated dove
Make music for pliez and turns,
And arabesques,
O, ballet.
Russell Hughes
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