We danced, you in blue
Denim and me,
uncomfortably sporting a black
bow tie, sweating because you,
dear you, a girl in my dreams,
whose blonde bottled hair
once covered your breasts
as you undressed
before me, a smile
tight on your Stockport lips;
we danced six years later,
holding my hand,
till dawn
when with sadness
and empty feeling in my stomach,
I awoke and cried a lonely tear.
Ian D. Hall 2017