Fire Dance
The darkness swoops back, and the light of the place
Comes into being, to reveal the silent and intent face
Of a harpist who with a gentle hand strums the strings.
Beneath his hand the harp, like a star, truly sings.

The others come to join him, walking as if on air,
Their faces pale and solemn, grave and sweetly fair.
Their hair flames behind them, red-gold and bright.
Their eyes hold the silence and the secret of night.

They gather around the harpist, and they watch the heart
Of the glade, where it seems a shimmering start
Plays with the glade like a heat wave in desert air.
A wind tosses the wild flames of their hair.

Into this clearing, over grass and moss soft as light,
Past birds singing in wonder of the miracle of flight,
Past blooms of every color, caught in deep dreaming,
Past a stream whose dancing waters confuse every meaning,

Comes a rider, seated proudly on a horse of pale gray,
A horse with dove's eyes and hooves that pick her way
Over the flowers without crushing a one.
Her moves are simple and joyous, a dance as much as a run.

The rider has neither saddle nor bridle, stirrup nor rein.
He stares into the distance with eyes the color of pain,
As if he had seen a country, a paradise, before his eyes,
That then perished with its perfection before the sunrise.

He moves with the horse, flowing when she turns,
And holds on with only legs; not even the mane that burns
Past his hands has a hold on his hands or heart.
He turns and nods to the harpist, the signal to start.

The long fingers twitch, and then pluck and shiver
The harp into a cry like the song of the river.
Melancholy and tearing, yet heart-breakingly sweet,
It seems to pluck also at the horse's feet.

The mare rears on her hind legs, and she pauses there,
Forehooves tearing the morning, cleaving the air.
She springs forward with a bound like the hunted fox,
And begins to dance as if on eggshells or rocks.

Around and around she goes, delicately lifting her hooves,
Forelegs answering the song whenever she moves,
Rising almost to her chest, almost bumping the knee
Of the rider who bestrides her so patiently.

The harp's song modulates, and moves into a chorus
That is answered with a snort and steps from the horse.
She sways as she strides, her head lifted, stargazing,
Her eyes full of the peace in which she could be grazing.

But she was made for something else, and so was the man
Who so patiently waits, now and then lifting his hand.
And then as the harp begins the notes that summon light,
He calls, and from that lifted hand fire takes flight.

Shining and shifting, and all the colors that flames
Can be, and some that have in no speech proper names,
The fire weaves around them, enclosing the mare with heat.
She only snorts in excitement and steps to the beat.

The rider's eyes are wide, and for a moment at peace,
As if the magic that rages in him finds sole release
In this exercise, this dangerous dance of the flame,
A golden message from a country which possesses no name.

His hand sweeps high, and the fire that has been flowing
To and fro at his will, the air with heat sowing,
Pauses, and writhes, and becomes a living bright net,
A course of barriers that the mare has never seen yet.

There is a pause as the harpist's music stops dead,
And the mare shakes her proud and gray, smoke-man‚d head.
Then she steps forward, her dove's eyes with silver gaze
Fixed on her audience, and not on the maze.

The music begins again, a tune with dissonances lush,
And save for the hoofbeats, a deep expectant hush
Descends on the clearing, as all those in attendance lean
Forward, and whisper speculation about what will be seen.

The rider waves his hand, sets the maze flowing once more,
And now mare and rider ride together to the door
That will lead them into death as in dark demon stories,
Or lead them into rapture surpassing all earthly glories.

Mare and rider linked together, working as a team,
The mare's dance moving together with the man's dream,
And yet working independently, so that the fire dance
Will be accomplished by some wondrous and powerful chance.

The rider knows not how his fire until the moment before
Might choose to move, or what patterns it forms; more,
He has no way to pass any knowledge onto his steed.
Her burning blood may consume her before she can bleed.

The mare knows not how she will step, or what her hooves
May do, any more than she knows which way the fire moves.
Only the rider's knees, sole link between man and mount,
May tell her anything, lead her through the maze and out.

The music demands, and without a sound the mare answers-
Without a sound but with power, in the way of all dancers.
Her neck curved, her legs flexing and bending like reeds,
She dances the flame, and she claims the leads.

More than once, the harp plays a step with seems to call
The fire to finish the dancers once and for all.
The streamers lick round her legs, shift and eddy and melt
Into new patterns that throw ruddy shadows on her pelt.

She never falters, and neither does her rider waver
In the magic that is all the sweetness he has to savor.
Complicated guesswork- they do not speak to each other,
But still the mare avoids one flame, and then another.

More than avoids them- she calls them away from the tune
As the tides are called away from the seas by the moon.
They weave around her, flowing to the patterns she chooses
With uncanny certainty, as if guided by muses.

The fire at last becomes one river, one flowing hue,
That mingles and flashes radiant white and bright blue.
Something born of three parents- the mare's quick hooves,
The music of the harpist, and the rider's hand moves.

Fire shines around them, then softly flickers and fades,
Going away to shine in the hearts of other glades.
The harpist draws a long and soul-weary breath,
And blinks at the glade as if the silence has reft

Him away from a place where magic became fire,
From a place where death and life were one desire.
He lowers his head, and joins the others in their bowing
To the pair who has once again danced that most cowing

Of feats, has brushed up against a magical death,
And come again to a place where they draw mortal breath.
The mare snorts and bows her head, in the toss of a lady.
The rider's eyes stare into distance between boughs shady.

The audience falls silent, and moves back with a sigh,
As the mare prances into the forest, neck and tail high.
The rider moves with her, through mingled shade and sun.
His eyes are pained again, but the two of them are one.

The bright heads turn to watch the pair disappear.
The wind whispers through the glade, and the brook clear
Sings over the grass, as they vanish, its liquid name.
In the heart of the glade darkness falls over the flame.