The Clog Dancers


Blue smoke curled from my cigarette
That evening on the old church wall
As canon fire between the graves
Shot music volleys from the hall
Where pinafores and flouncy dresses
Bobbed in choreography
And all the pink-faced local lasses,
Conscious of their geography,
Rehearsed their dance in sparking clogs.
It’s probably Lancastrian,
And borne of lost subconscious wells
Writ deep in Northern bastion,
That whisper of the ancient rights,
Each heel-clap virility
From pagan gods on windswept nights,
Distributing fertility
Among the maidens of each town.
Such timeless legacy ensures
That each new generation has
Its girls to dance with on the moors.

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