Ignition - Ian Lilburne

The women
Sunday morning
Dusty and dishevelled
A weekend without washing
Tired from the revelry
But eager for more

The instructress
Colourful in her Gypsy dress
And African beads
Herded them into a rustic grid
Her drummers gleeful
With their carved gourds
And bulbous sticks

As the rhythm grew
The women drew together
In an earthy ritual
Ecstatically grinning
Arms swinging
Feet stomping
A fertility rite
That mightily overtook them

The toddlers
Who’d come with their mums
And been left on the seats
Couldn’t sit still with this
Instinctively
They gathered in
Swaying falteringly
Neath the women’s steadying hands
The energy
Deep within them
Ignited
By a chthonian feminine force