There’s an edgy scent of winter in the air, of

chrysanthemums, azaleas, wood-smoke, frost.

Music flows through the drawing-room

and laps the windows at the further side.

Before the others come, my father takes my hand,

then we’re away, swept up by the music’s swell,

circling across the chevronned parquet floor,

his arm firm round my waist as I lean back, safe

for a while, the music thrumming in my head,

one-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three.

I try to get it right, for these are the good times,

when he’s happy, foot-sure, handsome in his tails,

humming all the bits he can’t quite remember,

the blue Danube flows, pom pom, pom pom –

and I’m feeling grown-up in black moiré taffeta,

a sister’s hand-me-down, much too old for me

while by the old gramophone, a four-foot high

monolith of mahogany, frayed silk and brass,

my mother stands, smiling her sad smile,

cranking the handle as we waltz past,

the river eddying round us, spinning us on

until I’m dizzy – reverse, advance, reverse –