A chance encounter in a charity shop...
Reflecting the keenness of the hunter,
And the bloom on your cherubic cheeks
Radiated an innocence of sorts,
But in your right hand you held a musket,
Your own I suspect, given your period garb;
Hunting hat with a flaunty feather,
Green riding coat over a rosebud dress,
Black ankle boots for outdoor use.
From your Hanoverian head to
Your Frankfurter feet you smacked
Of 18th century class and sophistication,
But I had to be sure it was profit at first sight.
I took you from the shelf of tat and trifles
And turned you upside down, looking for a sign,
Not 'Foreign' or 'Made in China', no, something
More refined, a back stamp to match your quaint quality,
And there it was, hidden under the fifty pence label,
Your birthright, your impressed parentage,
Crossed swords forming a guard of honour for
A daughter of Dresden, a maiden of Meissen.
And now you look down at me from the mantelpiece,
The sharp eyes, the pink flesh, the cupid-bow lips,
And no, my lovely, you bagged me without firing a shot.
Chris Fernie, 2016
Poetry by Christopher Fernie
Read 789 times
Written on 2016-05-10 at 17:45
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Lady from Dresden
You caught my eye with your stern stare,Reflecting the keenness of the hunter,
And the bloom on your cherubic cheeks
Radiated an innocence of sorts,
But in your right hand you held a musket,
Your own I suspect, given your period garb;
Hunting hat with a flaunty feather,
Green riding coat over a rosebud dress,
Black ankle boots for outdoor use.
From your Hanoverian head to
Your Frankfurter feet you smacked
Of 18th century class and sophistication,
But I had to be sure it was profit at first sight.
I took you from the shelf of tat and trifles
And turned you upside down, looking for a sign,
Not 'Foreign' or 'Made in China', no, something
More refined, a back stamp to match your quaint quality,
And there it was, hidden under the fifty pence label,
Your birthright, your impressed parentage,
Crossed swords forming a guard of honour for
A daughter of Dresden, a maiden of Meissen.
And now you look down at me from the mantelpiece,
The sharp eyes, the pink flesh, the cupid-bow lips,
And no, my lovely, you bagged me without firing a shot.
Chris Fernie, 2016
Poetry by Christopher Fernie
Read 789 times
Written on 2016-05-10 at 17:45
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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shells |
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Elle |
