Iris and Blanche,
retired West end Usherettes,
Joint treasurers to the benevolent society,
their own Christmas story flickers ,
fearing  poverty, melted candles
for  6d - they buy the job lot,
worn, threadbare carpets cover the hallway.
Seemingly unmoved, they try to forget
this turn of fortune.

Upheaval is now the perpetual downturn.
They’ve availed themselves to
missing out on life's gravy train, 
and been met with gas light frugality.
The sunken mattress tumbles across the  wooden floor,
casting shadows over,
yesterday's hubris.

Whatever happened to those
who rose through the floor
into orchestra pits of cinemas?
Playing familiar tunes
they created an interlude
among gilded decor.

Some married coquettish usherettes.
Others sought the gentle motion
created by a rise and fall of notes.
They bought houses with high ceilings
so that their music might float among stars,
whether their trajectory be up or down.