The Ice Skating Rink in Belfast

(Originally published in Tír na nÓg Magazine, 2022)

Knees straight, arms bent, I

Am beckoned to the

Edge of the rink to

Receive advice I

Didn’t ask for.

In 1960

He is awkward and

Eager on the ice

As he approaches

The girl on white skates.

His orange reflects

A warning to her.

Don’t get distracted,

Don’t get in the way.

She leads him skating

Backwards on the smooth

Surfaces whilst he

Holds her hand and scrapes

Up what is behind

Him.

Dancing on unsure

Footing, he offers

Her a chance to teach

And he follows her

Blindly.

Fearless and steadfast

She steadily drains

The orange from his

Skates and bleeds a white

Confidence into

Him.

His partner unties

The laces of her

Boots and passes from

One life to the next.

His memory of

Frozen time becomes

Forgotten after

A fall renders him

Immobile.

He visits the rink

Each week, watching the

Orange and white blades

Blend into a pale

Sunset he longs to

Have.

Having learned, having

Taught, he beckons me

To the edge of the

Rink to offer the

Advice I did not

Ask for.

I listen and skate.

Knees bent and arms straight.