The Circus (by Peter Elliott)

This poem is copyright (1995) - See end of poem

The band blares forth in strident blasts,
The buzz of excitement is high;
The vibrating rattle of pounding drums
Rolls to a crescendo, as, to the cry
Of the crowd, on the first act runs.

A crack of the whip and the stallions prance
And leap like a wave as it breaks,
White horses with pink-plume-ed manes,
Like hands of a clock, about its face,
Gallop echoing with loose-flying reins.

Perched aloft, in the spotlight's glare,
Are human birds in a man-made nest;
Their skill and luck they hope to test,
And, wartime pilots before a flight,
They'll show their scorn of Gravity's might.

A hush descends, like the quiet by a grave,
As they launch their craft in the ether sea.
As the white sun quivers in a watery mirror
So the tinsel shimmers, when, like a pendulum
Swinging with increasing momentum,
With the spectators' hearts beating faster and faster,
They let go the bar - Who cares for tomorrow? -
And flash through the air like a swooping swallow.

A patch of grass lies brown amid the green.
The tang of sawdust fresh, lights bright and gay,
The roving world of the circus-folk, the joy
And suffering, have gone like a winter sun
Into the nocturnal depths of memory.

Gone the lion-tamer!
Gone the tight-rope walker!
Gone the acrobats!
Gone the majestically indifferent elephants.
Gone the hot-dog vendors.

But in the mind of every child,
The picture of that clown stays clear.
Imagination builds up hopes
Like a building rising floor by floor
A big top being pulled aloft by ropes:
"The circus comes again next year".

---(Peter Elliott)---

This version of the poem incorporates a few additions
to the original, which was published in the 1968 magazine
of Selborne College, East London, South Africa.

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