Morris On

The hard soles echo on the asphalt, grey
And hot, swept for the purpose – at this pace
Waste paper would have dancers diving straight

Into the public, or misjudging how
To aim their sticks. Around the square the group
Of watchers is as large as that

Of the performers; at the market-cross
The next competitors stand waiting for
Their turn, done up the way tradition has

Laid down. Dressed in her summer best, at least
As colourful, my Tamil daughter sits
Square on the ground, legs crossed, to watch the troupes'

High antics and to listen how the reels
Spin through the morning – twice a stranger, she
Drinks in the whole performance breathlessly.