Dance of the Quarks

She held herself up with the lift of her head, feeling in the line of her arabesque for one of the flaming Platonic lines of the universe.

Then she bent her head to the turn of her thigh, arm tracing down to the waiting smoothness of her stocking.


Lightly fall feet to the ground: perfection is the inevitable accident. And they whirl and draw with the light falling on the curve of arms and necks the snow.


Feet traced the scratched floor, swept over it like eddies of snow. They rustled together in an embracing, exclusive stillness, a glimmering dry charm.

There was nothing in the universe but the leaping lines of the music and the warmth in her still, pulsing arms. And the strange lights that clothed them, that they could not see.


She stood taut as a spring along the line of her pointed toe, spin lifted so she could glance sideways at a neck, her neck. She knew that if she moved, space would wake and send lines of snow spiralling along the glittering fields her arms pointed to life. And she would spin faster and faster into the snowstorm that her arms created, that drew her pirouette into its own. But she didn’t move: she stood thoughtfully wrapped in the shadow of her reflection, and waited for another’s explosion.


Between the surface of thin frosted lights and the top of the glittering momentary hallway that the music drew into being….

Fell the flakes to the floor, swirling to the bottom of the universe where high heads and cold arms rested.


A dancer’s a stir in a breathless field of tulle and thought. The field wills me to life. I give it its life.


Still I write my song….

An instinct for time’s taut cadences. A tight, caressing thunder. A vital and golden noisiness. A furious imagination. A voice from a younger universe, warm as art, eternal as life.

And a song is born.

They weave decadences of silence, and trace through them glittering strands of storm. The air holds the afterglow of flaming interwoven glances, of fingers on the pulse of time, of five musicians listening to each other.

Many are not there now that were before, but time has not reclaimed her gift. They still weave colours and hear the elder songs. Now it is Marco who draws from the night the shimmering thunder of stars unseen.

Tarja’s voice was heady and remote as sunrise on the mountains. Annette’s was brown as the sun on the edge of the woods. Floor’s is deep as starlight, clear as night.

They are still Nightwish.