After the Ball
‘May I have the pleasure?’ asks this debonair
young man. “I’d be delighted!” I reply.
His face appears familiar. Reminds me of my Jack,
killed in action on the Somme - September, 1916.
He takes me in his arms – the waltz begins;
‘The Beautiful Blue Danube’ – mirrored in his eyes.
Such rhythm, such panache!
He sweeps me off my feet, literally.
The band strikes up a polka, then a foxtrot.
How adept he is. How well he takes the lead.
On the stroke of twelve, the band stops playing.
My head is spinning. I catch my breath.
He sees me home, farewell in every step, for as is said,
all good things have to end ... some time.
I get undressed. Take off my ball-gown – frothy pink;
a marshmallow affair, sewn with sequins.
He enquires, am I ready for my pills? I nod twice
for ‘Yes’, then he holds my hand, dims the light.
Life’s no fairy-tale and I’m no Cinderella, and yet
a mere heartbeat away, my golden coach awaits.