The Ice Dancer

My preparation over with, I point

a blade-end at the ice, then visualise

the glide: the lack of effort, the sheer grace

of movement and practiced serenity.

I see myself move, in wide arcs and twisting turns.

I picture the routine: traditional tucks,

well-rehearsed pirouettes, breathtaking flips,

tipping my head, first this way, then that,

sweeping my arm in magnificent gesture.

I imagine the glister of shorn ice,

crystal spray landing in perfect order

in front of me; I predict the amazement

of my audience as I mind-mime

perfect synchronicity with the music

around me, my heart triple salkowing

as my thoughts whirl, spiralling dizzily:

I tell myself I am a fabulous ice dancer -

my elegance and style are legendary.

Under the floodlight, the ice-pond crackles

into life. I arch and stretch, flex tendons,

then in half-prayer, half-incantation, take

one final breath, then

pain, like an ice-cream headache,

that freezing lance of misery,

and I crack

as the pristine ice-pond

mocks me.