He was small, he was nimble and neat on his feet.
When he asked her to dance she rose at once from her seat.
His hand on her waist felt light and yet strong.
In step, on each beat, he propelled her along.
She was floating like a skiff on the waves of the tune.
With each soft shoe shuffle she wanted to swoon.

When the dance was completed, he'd thanked her and gone
But his sense of rhythm and his power lingered on.
Now she waits for his asking and hopes for a chance
To whirl round the floor with a man who can dance.

© Edith Ryan.

Edith Ryan is a member of Lanark Writers' Circle