Remembering The Comerford Irish Dancers
Under a cloudy sky, in an open tent, two
young men dance on a rough plywood stage. Tall, slim, blue-eyed and fair-haired, the
first dances loosely and rhythmically. He wears an inward look as his
strapped-on clogs, worn over black dress shoes, tap gracefully on the rough
plywood stage. His movements are
innocent, effortless, young.
The other dancer is the really stunning
talent. His features bear a classic delicacy, and his perfectly arched brows are half-hidden by the black curls that dance along with
him. His collarless shirt is of
a drab colour, and baggy black dress pants, with two pleats on each side, complete
his anachronistic perfection. This boy, at the cusp of manhood, dances with such joyful abandon that his consummate skill seems incidental. He is pleasurably aware of his perfect young body, and his sure steps on the boards are
playful, easy, light. The crowd observes this magic with a unified indrawing of
breath.
In perfect harmony, these young men dance
until perspiration dews their faces. Each bows casually to acknowledge the howls of
applause. Then each takes his turn at a solo, while the other steps back to stand loosely relaxing. At the climax of the second solo,
both bow low, polite but indifferent to the crowd’s appreciation. Lightly, they
leap from the front of the stage, stroll into the crowd.
Still electrified by the performance, I
remain seated on the damp grass while the dancers walk away, their
limbs loose with the youthful satisfaction of having abandoned their bodies to
the joys of movement. Then, flinging a leather jacket over his shoulder, the dark one places a cigarette in his mouth and stalks off. The fair one follows.
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