In Flagstaff Gardens, Melbourne,
on grass worn smooth by time and feet,
the dancer breaks the afternoon open.
Feathers arc from the crown
long, banded quills flung wide,
as if the wind itself were harnessed
and taught to keep formation.
Painted bone and hollowed eyes
fix the face in ritual calm,
death not as ending,
but as pattern and return.
An arm cuts forward, firm and exact,
the rattle clenched like a held heartbeat.
Metal plates flash across the chest,
each piece catching light,
each sound answering movement.
The body bends, advances, commands space
a geometry of step and stamp,
ancient in cadence, precise in force.
Behind, the crowd gathers into blur:
soft hats, folded arms, lifted phones,
modern shapes dissolving
into witness rather than presence.
They stand at the edge of the circle,
quieted by the seriousness of motion.
The garden holds it all
trees steady, paths attentive,
the city paused for a breath.
Once a parade ground, once a place of drills,
now it hosts another discipline:
dance as memory,
dance as declaration,
each movement inscribed briefly
into the air,
then gone.
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