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”.