The nobleman nods at the damsel in ruby pumps,
her ultramarine peepers dilate, locks spread like wings
as the melody relaxes from jazz to chamber,
tranquilizing the maiden’s gray matter.  

This bewitching, pirouetting, skyscraping, crystalline manor salon
where mortals promenade, flitting into moonlight like champagne
as blush tapers twinkle on chilled, silvery panels,
reverberating the radiance of umpteen goblets.  

And well-formed pairs flow as if they are in rapture,
shadowing the luxury of this gala birthed ages ago,
up to midnight when the unearthly belle
blanches, freezes, clutches the nobleman.  

For despite the thundering melodies and hushed babbles
her ears make out Big Ben’s uncompromising tick-tock.