It is to be expected in the more rural areas of England to find traditional events going on at some time or another. I was intrigued to see what the Day of Dance would be in the town where I moved to a few months ago. I was not disappointed by the spectacle which draws ‘teams’, if that is the correct word, of dancers from far and wide to perform through the town’s main thoroughfare. There is something comforting about the continuation of such traditions which is not so much a nostalgic feeling as a means of touching on history, and preserving a community spirit in a world that is rapidly losing that essential aspect of society.
The Day of Dance has crowned the town
With all manner of dress and gowns
As gay and gaudy as the gardens.
The Morris is a must of course with clogs
And sticks and fiddle. The middle
Of the square, as all the teams of dancers
Prepare, where colours collide and mingle,
Is a mayhem of pagan pageant. No single
One stands out, as people sing and sounds
Resound throughout the town to celebrate
The birth of another Spring.