"This poem is from a sequence of pieces about growing up in Prestwich just outside, what was at the time, the largest asylum in Europe where casual madness was the everyday"
She danced
She danced and no one knew her name
We called her Mad Annie
She never danced in the rain
She danced in the road
She danced in the face of oncoming
She danced with her Spitfire
She twirled it above her head
It was a baton.
The traffic slowed to go round her
She danced with the cars
She danced to the sounds in her head
She danced to the machine guns
Rat a tat tat tat
Percussion gave her the rhythm
Paradiddle a diddle
Hooting horns gave her the satisfaction
She looked to the sky to see the planes
She could always see one
She always had her own
When the planes gunned her down
She danced no more
She lay down in warm blood
The cars still went around
When the figures of authority arrived
She danced no more
She stayed down
Sirens took her away
For them she danced a waltz
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