A fiery temperament
Matching the flaming colour of the catwalk
The casualty, her refusal to take the hand offered
When she lost her rhythm, her flow.
She fell, hitting the glass table.
The blow knocking three shades of temper from her.
The air blue,
her words turning the heat in the room into a furnace.
Those assembled, moved in unity.
Like a wave being drawn back out to sea
Unable to help the swirling ball of temper on the floor
That once had been the beauty on the catwalk…
© Anita Dawes 2021