The Chorus Line

No smell of greasepaint or roar of the crowd,

Just scent of the earth and whisper of wind

As it pushes rudely past, blowing up their skirts

And they whisper indignantly as they waltz and whirl.

They wait in the wings, gaggling and chittering,

Nervously twitching and tweaking the curtain.

When they explode on stage in a riot of colourful costume

They will give the performance of their life.

The audience expects. It has been a fabulous show.

We have been spellbound by the spectacle;

We have watched them grow, their characters unfurled,

Developed and enthralled us; every one a star.

Here they come now; high kicks and pirouettes.

Copacabana. The Moulin Rouge.

Clad in scarlet, russet, vermilion and gold,

Dancing with grace, beauty and elegance.

We want to stand to applaud but it’s too hard to see.

The lights dim and suddenly there is silence.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the leaves have left the branches.

Thank you very much. They’ll be back next year.”