|
|
|
|
Zippo's Montage by Curtis Tappenden
The First Time
Curtis Tappenden
The first time. Steam lifting from dampened grass; sweet pungent haze,
halo-ed crimson against the tented stars. It’s a theatre of senses;
a temporal world you can only visit the once if you are to tumble through
magical transformations and return.
Blue: plumed horses hoofing sawdust, whirling speed; Orange: tigers
leaping wild-flame; Green: the solitude of acrobats suspended, spinning
silks; Red: the reckless, po-faced clown who sawed my dad in half to
a delighted, ebullient crowd.
Years later, I am sharing the foxed programme with the maestro ringmaster,
now stooped with cane, cocked topper and a jamboree of memories. The
print is as bright as his eyes and he retells colourful travelling tales
in blue, orange, green, red.
Beneath the stars my father still shuffles slowly. The years have healed
his injuries – no regrets. In a world demanding rehearsal and
precision, the performer’s worst time is always their first time.
And practice, my friend, makes perfect.
|
|
|