My mother loved to dance.
Through the glittering ballrooms of empire
she danced;
through the sirens and the doodlebugs
she danced;
through my unforgiving childhood
she danced.
Now the damp grey air
has sucked the colour from the world.
Around a bottomless hole
we silently remember
the happy bright woman
who loved picnics in the woods
and the smell of babies
and try to ignore
the hopeless embarrassing sobs
of a weeping aunt.
Am I the only one
who wants to dance?
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