We slip, slide. Gloves grip as grins glide,
yours curtly cutting, mine churlish chutting.
Our skates scrape, skit, skirt, flit, flirt,
fillet fresh-eyed fish under-boots brute.
Silent sound, urge unfound
to tell truths knighted, nimble-nice
We weave, dodge on thimble-thin ice.
Holmes & Watson's Ice Dance
My entreaties endeavour
to cleave claws, handsome, clever
from ‘round-pond skating, skirting.
They toy, tease, ever flirting
‘bout timely topics, now’s news.
My pink point, would they peruse,
chance, charm, ere the sport grows cold.