Winter Dreaming.(Revised).

Listening for the Firebird
on the shortest day of the year,
hoping that summer will come quickly.

This was the first ballet that I danced in,
a small boy holding a sceptre made from balsa;
but now the taste of greasepaint and cold sweat
is a distant memory,
discarded cotton swabs at the back of the tongue.

Fog diminishing the view from my kitchen window.
Fog making the world seem grey and small.
I am sick to death with this tawdry English winter,
so outclassed by the average Russian chill.
No magical creatures to lighten the long dark hours.
No fiery legends. No oriental magic shows.

November was a drizzly pain in the butt.
December days are short, and wrecked by a lack of
                                                                       money,
therefore I am more than pleased to discover your
                                                                good news,
girl with the face and elegance of Karsavina,
girl with hair as red as autumnal leaves.

You tell me your suitcase is packed, your toothbrush
                                                                     selected;
your makeup in place, your hat fixed on with a pin;
I shall endeavour to meet you the moment that you
                                                                have landed,
two tickets for the Colosseum tucked inside my wallet,

                                                   a birdcage in my hand.

Last night I watched a film about the life of Pavlova.
I weep for those times that I was not born to live through.
Times rich in hope, abundant creativity.
Now all I can do is sit and recall the stories my aunt Tamara told me,
and dream of Diaghilev, Nijinski, dear Anna Akhmatova.

Girl with the face and elegance of Karsavina,
you are the solstice gift that I now crave for,
the dart of fire to pierce old Kashchei`s soul.

I check the clock. It is time to go to the airport.
I just hope your flight has not been delayed by the weather.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
December 19th. - 20th. - 21st. 2016. - December 26th. 2918.

Note. In truth I carried a box on a cushion, not a sceptre.
I see the early 1900`s as a time of hope and creativity. very much the opposite to the narrow minded nationalism and self centredness that has darkened and shrunk the horizons of hope and aspiration in this petty minded era. Open your hearts this Christmas, get rid of all pettiness. Let love reign.