Monday is Poetry Bus day but a lot of you have jumped on early this week.
I am trying to fill my head with two types of creativity at once - making an embroidered cover for my holiday book and writing a poem for the bus. I am afraid it does not work.
So, I make no apologies for posting a poem I wrote a couple of years ago, which fits the criteria of this week's challenge (scroll down to Poetry Bus if you don't know what the challenge is). I am enlisting the aid of Dominic in the making of the link list because try as I might last night I just could not get linking to work.
So here is my poem. I first met Bertie Webb long after he had retired as Headmaster of a Public School. He was a delightful and very cultured man and full of boundless energy. He had retired to a small village in Cornwall but came up to Lincolnshire to stay with friends each Summer. He was fanatical about Old Time Dancing, hence this poem. He died well into his nineties.
Death of a Dancing Man.
His the light step, good for the gallop,
or The Dashing White Sergeant,
as the Village Hall throbbed to the music
and the bare boards rattled.
His the ninety years of
swinging the girls on his arm;
doing the do-si-do, mastering the tango;
passing down the ranks of
pretty girls, but never
His the death on the kitchen floor,
The Palais Glide,
The Lambeth Walk,
and The Last Waltz.
Have a lovely, poetic weekend.