I realised that I am your token poet and thought that I would post you some poetry up here, as I was sad ideasorchard was over.

So I have posted you a poem, and there’s quite a bit now going up on my blog in the page links along the right-hand side…more towards the end of the day probs. So this is Glass Slipper (in case you’re wondering all my poetry is written from the point of view of the object within it. Also involving photography if I ever get a working SLR camera.)

Comment if you like, but it’s here for people to enjoy. Thanks! Rhi xx

Glass Slipper

She slipped the swaths of fabric over her head and they fell in one silken movement over her soft body, setting a final swish at her calves.
Gently, lovingly, she soothed mascara onto her eyelashes and stroked pink lipstick across her pale lips.
She was seducing herself.
Turning to us in the corner, her hair patted and matted to perfection, I was ready.
Wriggling toes right to the end she stood us and twirled, I did a pirouette.

She sipped her drinks, and laughed.
She tossed her hair, and simpered.
Pulling her shawl closer we stepped into the cold, my palm touching cold wet ground.
The smoked curled around her pink, still-laughing, lips;
inside, powder and soothe once more,
all the time waiting and hoping, we tapped a rumba.

Then at once we were swift and sure, she sensed and span around.
He was here.
She swung her hips so we shifted like a supermodel
she did not run, the room paused for our tip-tap steps.
And we were nose to nose with old friends, leather and smelling of polish.
Together, we began the paso doble.

Whirling, a laugh escaped her ecstatic lips,
I was high with the pleasure of the trip and twirl of the waltz.

Sashaying to the bar we were in heaven, whole;
but when we returned there were sparkles twinned with our leather friends.
My heel clicked with my sisters as ankles sadly sagged.
And trying to capture the prince we danced harder and harder
I rubbed her feet until small white blisters appeared.
They made her angry. We did a tango.

We spin, and she fears, she knows
the prince has already danced his last.
And small trails of mascara tears slipped down her face and left soft greying marks on her dress so beautiful
Like white whirls left behind by the tides.
Her hair had fallen, she was tearing out pins and dropping them all around her,
I could hear the tuning note as they hit the ground;
as they hit the ground now next to my points. The ballet was playing to its end.

And we ran, we tripped and swayed and stumbled
my ankle turned and I was fallen to the ground, lost and alone.
Not even paired.
There at the side of the street I remembered the time we danced as Cinderella,
the princess all night, and in the morning complete.
That’s what I thought of
as headlights went past, as rain fell, I could dance no more.