He the prince

Had captured her

Enchanted by the flashing splendour

Of her tiger eyes

The mountain mist in her flyaway hair

And kept her captive

In his ancient home

On a lonely hill.

To be the presiding deity

Of his cool drawing room

With light reflecting listlessly

Through cobwebs

Hung over blind

shuttered windows

He’d liked the tenor of her mind

Fire, sensitive, fresh from convent school.

So he’d brought her to his castle

To keep a count of knives and spoons

To oversee the pickles and preserves

And now…

Her eyes have lost

their tiger gleam,

Her hair is a lank and listless brown

Her voice echoes lost worlds

She’s a skletal butterfly

Embalmed in blue diamond glass

And he?

Fresh from a jaunt to distant lands

He says, “She’s lost her charm”.

Comments are closed.