Red Shoes (Poetry)

A slant of light, obliging, clear,
shines through the window where she sits,
her easel tilted round to catch
the evening sun whose colours match
her palette’s warm, rose-tinted mix —
the oils that delicately smear

their pigment on translucent skins
stretched like canvas, bone to bone —
she flicks the paint with practised flair,
creates a scene, defines a pair
of dancers centre stage, flesh-toned
arabesque of tight-clad limbs

that capture artistry in flight,
the balanced flow of movement held
in time’s suspension — at a stroke
their music stops, a spell’s invoked
so she might dance and contours meld
her crippled shadow with the light.

A wheelchair traps her nerveless shell
but through her brush old dreams escape,
set free to leap and pirouette
with strength renewed, each springing step
made passionate, reproaching fate’s
unfeeling star that rose and fell...

Her vision floats in gauzy hues —
the leading role she never danced,
rehearsed so often in her head,
her satin slippers glowing red
as agony — she paints, entranced,
a dying swan in scarlet shoes.