Ball, The

A rustle of fabric as she steps down unto the floor,

Her flowing hair overflowing

The bounds of ribbon; pins of steel

Do not contain it,

And this is mirrored in her dress

A gown of layers, and of depth,

Muted colours and embroidered patterns

Playing ‘neath bright silks and heavy brocade.

 

A lady may be judged by her dress, so it is said,

Although some wear cloths that deceive us.

For many a shy woman has been out,

In red, warm yellow, bright green or blue

A mask of riches

Which seek to flatter or distract.

 

Were I a lady, ‘twould not be me you’d see

Dancing the elegant waltz

Arm in arm with a gentleman.

For in the back, in grey and lilac

Sitting by a window – perhaps reading a book

That is no place to look for a lady

For sure

 

Yet that is where I’d be

(Were I a lady, which of course, I’m not).

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