Then ‘cross the surface of the stage she glides.
From pad to pad she skips and hops along,
Surrounded by her sparkling fire flies.
At last she rises up on pointed webs,
And pauses like a statue, picturesque,
Dressed in a tutu spun from spider threads,
She holds a dazzling perfect arabesque.
No other theatre holds a ballerina
As keen or green as Prima Frogallina.
Poem ©2013 George Kirk
Image ©2013 Paul Morton