Through her creased paper appearance

I watched her dance in time

to the cabaret of the Blackpool day,

too tired beyond four

in the afternoon

to stiffly

compete with the aged, gnarled

quick fingers at the head of the Wurlitzer

playing out tunes that were fashionable

when she was a young lady

on the edge of unblinking time.

I sit and consider the movement,

a smile of love

for her as the applause ripples

above the tide, the pier

holding her memory

as the first sign

of summer rain

marks her exit.