the ballet class

infant ingénues
imagining woods and sylphs
whilst Madame tutted and rasped
with her smoker's cough
and we wished for the swish
of tulle and satin shoes
of perfect pliés and points
for turning circles on mirrored glass
to the tune of a Chopin polonaise

in wrinkled tights and small tutus
we danced the love of the lure
slowly - the way swans died
and the fated faded inconsolably
we were wisps spirited away
on a virtuoso violin
'til the varnish wore thin
and the Prima Donna dreams
became a step too far for tiny feet

Susie is in the Imaginary Garden today and entices us to: “Keep Dancing