Maitre de Ballet
On a gossamer thread
Of light that stretches
From dark to dark
Over the void
We giddily jig
To the mad music
The Master makes.
From the Green Room
He calls us forth,
Sensitive puppets,
Live automata,
And with a gesture
Sets us jerkily
Dancing the tightrope.
From a seat in the stalls
Of the cosmic theatre
Silently
He watches our antics.
When we call to him
‘ Master, Master!
Help, we are falling!’
Out of the darkness
Comes no word
.... Only a chuckle.