Ballerina. Poem by Miki Byrne

In a high attic. Under the tilted apex,
She gazed out over the rooftops of Montmartre
And danced en pointe till her toes bled.
She held her arms out, curved like a bow.
Fingers curled as if to cup a vagrant bird.
The white skirt flared like a tulip about her knees.
The window darkened, slow as a dawning thought.
Cats called. Yowling across rain-slipped tiles
and blue clouds grazed the gibbous moon.
He did not come and she awoke.
To one teabag left in the tin
And half a digestive that crumbled like her dreams.