The Dancing Hours, by Adrian McRobb

The warped boards sprung from cleats
no longer support the dancers twirls
a chandelier long ago crashed to the floor
it's broken shards reflecting dark corners
upstairs corridors echo to idle chatter
the sweeping staircase carpet, mouse nibbled
curtains sag on rusty pelmets, moth holed
marble fireplace grey-black in ancient soot
a dream of chiffon and black leather pumps
an old clock, it's broken cogs now brass debris
lighter shades where ancestors frowned down
peeling plaster blows in an invisible breeze
clockwork dancers move in an endless waltz
while cracked glasses clink, in empty parody
all gone now, beyond the reach of time...