Dancing With The Lama’s Wife

I met the lama’s wife, it’s true,

cavorting, chortling

lifting up her coloured skirts

swish-swishing,

tendrils of grey hair escaping

from her low bun.

She never took her eyes off you,

her new daughter

in gleeful camaraderie.

I was in Whangarei, it’s true,

but I met the lama’s wife.

Girlish gap-toothed grin,

face creased

like the crevassed landscape

above Shey Gompa,

clang cling clang

of dented metal cookware,

thump thump thud and slide

of heavily socked feet

on the rough wooden boards

that had seen a thing or two

but never such a devilish dance as yours

I was in Whangarei, it’s true,

but I met the lama’s wife.

What ghosts of snow leopards

leapt away in fright

that night

only to slink back

and peek

through ancient wall-cracks?

And as you sang your

hearty tuneless song

the lama’s wife

she whooped and cried

and sang along, with Himalayan lungs.

I was in Whangarei, it’s true,

but I met the lama’s wife.

She saw me there,

she turned and locked

those dark and bird-like eyes

on mine

for just a moment,

nodded,

then went back to dancing

Swish swish, thump thump thud and slide