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