Wrapped in the corset of Dorset green bowed,
Hardy country, far from the maddening crowd
Where vibrant dancers meet to be wowed.
Remember the fate of Casterbridge,
Jivers don’t place your heart in a fridge.
The best dancers come here to be seen,
Snow-lit on the moon’s laser-light beam.
Arriving at the dance, the music echoing,
A weekend beckoning a jive reckoning.
The senses once in temporary relaxation
Now in adrenaline driven anticipation.
Warmwell casting a woodland spell
Which the jive weekender cannot repel.
Holiday chalets with no maid or valet,
Two days with only what we can carry.
Orange curtain canvas filters the light.
The brook talks nonsense in the night,
Women and men talk, nibble, and bite,
Chalets echo with old stories told,
Heater whirls as the girls feel cold.
Wine-washed memory and laughter,
Dancing later then the morning after.
A weekend of simple dancing excess,
A transient holiday time with no redress.
An opportunity for jive-driven fancy dress.
Sixties fashions have come out to bat,
Hippies and James Brown feel good at that.
Two white rabbits with different habits,
A Hatter with madness to smatter.
Batman with a suit that does not flatter.
The Wallys, red stripped from cartoon alley
Dance together as if in some strange ballet.
In wonderland Alice asks, “where’s Walley?”
“Which one?” asks a man in the melee,
“Walleys are so many”.
Outside the Mad Hatter smokes a cigarette,
Heavy makeup hides his remorse his regret.
The cooling smoke in the cold air hangs,
Inhaling deeply for another he pangs.
Alice, tall and leggy has seen better days,
Long blonde tresses in a fairytale haze.
We see her sky blue dress and eyes blaze.
White Rabbit in the cold car park, is he real?
I admire his fur, his zeal, having instant appeal.
He draws out my smile in a long reel,
Something he paints is an image surreal.
The casual pirate, a slack Jack,
Sits languid on the bar stool
A distant memory of yesteryear’s cool.
The cowgirl’s demeanour sits proud,
Shop worn, well worn, but never bowed.
In glitter shorts and cowboy hat
Tired of the prowl but not flat.
Love just an easy word away,
She just needs to let patience play.
Timing her moment to step into the fray,
Admiring tight dresses and skirts,
Selecting her targets for casual flirts.
On the slow blue room dance floor
Where Blues and West Coast Swing
Have their time their fling.
The girl in the leopard print dress
Hangs off a man in an electric blue suit,
Her moves astute sensuous acute.
Eyes follow from the fast food vendor,
Ketchup spills in the lap of a contender.
The round shouldered cowboy lets out a sigh,
His Annie Oakley is pissed, he could cry.
Shuffling her to the periphery,
He wonders why he bothers with this frippery.
Tomorrow with our dancing over,
With the autumn sun coming out
Breaking down our festive redoubt.
Our last sup of this addictive release,
Dancing memories packed up in peace.
All with heavy hearts we shall leave,
For some memories will deceive
Selected memory shall cleave.
Leaving our holiday chalet home
Where psyche and physical freely roam.
Briefly, unfettered by expectations of life,
Tomorrow reality will cut like a knife.