The Skeleton Dance

We went to the pictures one bright afternoon,
There were serials, slapstick, and then a cartoon
Of skeletons dancing. That night I was soon
Woken up by the skeleton dance.

Those skeletons jiggled their fingers and toes
And juggled their thigh bones and skulls with no nose,
They grinned as their eye sockets gaped, and I froze
At the clattering skeletons’ dance.

I ran to my mother and shook her awake –
‘It’s those skeletons dancing!’ ‘Those what? For my sake
Get back to your bed, it’s past midnight, why make
Such a fuss for a skeleton dance!’

I said I was sorry, I pushed back her hair
To kiss her smooth forehead, now shining and bare,
And saw that her skin hid a skull. Even here
Was a skeleton waiting to dance.

Since that night long ago I have tried not to see
Her forehead – or yours – for it’s bound to show me
The bone just below, which is waiting to be
Whirled away in the skeleton dance.

Ruth Silcock brings deft narrative skill, compassionate humour and a sharp eye for the oddities of human behaviour to these poems about the neglected, the marginalized and the unnoticed. ‘46 Nursing Homes’ is a sequence which draws on her personal experience. It will speak directly and wittily to the heart of anyone who has tried to find appropriate care for an elderly relative or friend. Her book is a triumph of humour and humanity.