Strip the Willow
 
Left-hand in left-hand you spin with each man,
As I move down the line in my rented kilt, bright
In Kings College tartan, I twirl the next girl,
And between each we whirl, our hands right-in-right;
And you spin the next man, with the Cornish-dark tan
While I twirl the fake blonde; 5 foot 8? Then on cue
Our right-hands gently press, yet more willow skin peels,
And you touch me more deeply, and I think I do you . . .
 
But now it’s the chubby chap, likely Trad Cath,
I’m whirling his wife, like a German-shaped stone,
With beer, Schwein and Munich I’m briefly as one,
But I twirl with you now and I find myself home
And each time I go home, to some Stornaway croft,
The hearth’s that bit the warmer; the whiskey’s more bite,
The music, from fiddle and drum, takes me far
Into the heather-mauve mists of their late-summer night . . .
 
Where the willows are us, and the willows are stripped,
And the same, and the bark’s soft as snow on the floor,
With the wood at first white, but now probingly bright,
So we turn to a stranger and ceilidh some more.       
Left-hand in left hand, you spin with each man
As you move down the dancers, your bouquet of heather,
In my Kings College tartan . . .  There’s the top of the line . . .
Where we spin from this world; all four hands clasped together. 

Lucius Falkland

 
If you have any thoughts about this poem, Lucius Falkland  would be pleased to hear them