She was dancing,
Dancing dead in his arms.
She was still dancing on the Saturday,
On that crimson dance floor.
She had been told by the doctor
That if she merely ran down the road
She risked being struck down.
But dance she did,
Because she had lived through the Second World War.
She’d remembered the blackouts and the bombs
And having to hide in the shelter at the bottom of the garden.
She said she’d never have exchanged those days
Because she lived to dance.