Me and the Skipping Girl
From her prospect on that Richmond hill,
Her skipping steps look effortless;
All neon-lit in night-time glory,
She unfolds her rope and dances
With an ease that all these stagnant cars
Can in their slow, lethargic chug
Only ever dream of.
Yet in practice, this is how
Sluggish legs respond to the
Circling demands of the fast-paced rope,
Its teasing, pulsing motion too
Much like marching orders for
Their dull, dry souls to handle.
And so they thud –
Thumping down upon the rope
And silencing the strange, entrancing
Rhapsody of swirling string
And tangling arms. It stops
And then it all untangles and
Rearranges into a plucky
Second or tenth try.
And yet sometimes it all contrives
So marvellously: spinning rope,
Red neon-light, legs, hands and feet
In one accord to make quick work
Of that which seems, outside to be
So simple, childish perhaps, yet
Is so near impossible;
And when it does! – the joy, the rush,
The dance, the slick, well-oiled machine,
Defying friction, gravity,
The wilfulness of body parts
Subsumed into an act which, in
Its swiftness, shows what angels feel
Or birds know as they glide,
A motion which both runs against
All our bodies want to do –
The way that legs and arms declare
Themselves as separate entities –
And yet, when joined in this deft set
Of singing steps, transforms us into
Those who need not long for wings.
The Consolations of Writing 
Excellent. Construction, rhythm, subject and pace.
Thanks again! So glad you liked it.