At the Festival of Islam
the dervishes are dancing.
The dancemaster stands
in his long black gown
straight-backed, his hands
folded in front of him.
Twelve swarthy men
in cylindrical hats
and loose white blouses
and long white skirts
and their long white sleeves
stretched out straight
like the albatross
have begun to dance.
The drum measures
flutes and strings
and men following.
Serious, rapt,
as if to wind themselves
up with their arms
they revolve, their skirts
flaring out loose
in white pyramids
below the inverted
pyramids of white
blouses and arms
which support the top
truncated pyramids
of circling hats.
Pattern and no pattern,
alone and in union
without unison
in the hard light
of Friends' House
in Euston Road
the dervishes whirl
round, they dance
round, round
they go, without
sound, now,
round and round.