Use of Space

My granddaughter has scored, for Modern Dance,
Good marks in all departments, with a nine
For “Use of Space”. Give me another chance
And her certificate might well be mine.
I moved well at her age, and when I grew
I thought of Dance as something I could do.

I never could, of course. I merely flung
Myself about with untrained feet and hair.
No gift at all, except for being young,
And gradually that faded on the air
As I became another crumbling face
Scoring a pittance for his Use of Space.

Now I score zero. But because I’ve seen
Her switch to different corners of the room
Without, it seems, crossing the space between,
Delight reminds me time is a new broom:
It clears the floor our youngsters use to get
The compartmentalised certificate

That we’d have liked to have, but didn’t put
The work into, and so did not deserve —
Although we might have been quite fleet of foot
And God knows that we would have had the nerve —
But we had other things to do and know.
Let her do this. Be glad, and let it go:

For you the Use of Space comes to an end
With your collapse into a spill of dust,
And you are for the wind and waves, my friend,
And all of this is timely, true and just.
The old ones disappear, the young dance on;
They use the space we make by being gone.