Leaves are peeling from the trees like gilt shavings. Peaches of mouldering Venetian velvet drop from the branch.
;after those months of torpor and light-headed stasis, our lives have weight again.
Now in the cold museum of our mornings the air preserves our words like frosted violets.

In the city our eyes are caught once more by remnants of old-fangled
finery: a curving lily in a stained glass door.
a stone angel pointing heavenward in the cemetery
In this weak, amber light, the world feels
as gentle and distant as a sepia photograph.
Yet in the wind there is that chilling hint of diamantine winters on the horizon.Now we ache like a Chopin sonata for the lacerating beauty of what we must leave behind.
It's the last days of the Romanovs all over again.

No marble urns, nor crumbling wreaths
no widow's weeds nor plaited hair
Not even skulls are needed to
remember what is always there

The stream that darkly rustles while
the world is breaking into spring
That slow but dogged leitmotif
that threads the life of everything

The widows wear their heavy veils
and rivieres of blackest jet
Instead I do a million things
In order that I might forget

I cram with gorgeous curios
the Wunderkammer of my eye
with hummingbirds and coloured flowers
and every treasure 'neath the sky


Then rush to all my rendez vous
with ticking pocket-watch in hand
and leap around the city like
a rabbit out of Wonderland

When Bluebeard told his bride there was
a closet she must never see
She painted deep inside her head
A portrait of how it might be;

She saw a wonder chamber there
with Baroque pearls and curios,
with sequinned birds and spiky shells,
and monstrous fish and cameos.

And when her husband had to leave
to make a voyage 'cross the sea
he said she might use every room
and gave to her the master-key


The chambers here were many, all
with costly silk upholstery
With works of art and silver plate,
and porcelain, jewels and ivory

He showed her then another key
but told her, glaring, to beware-
To never use it, for it opened
up the closet 'neath the stair

His bride just laughed and said that he
could trust her even with his life
That he might rest assured that she
would never be a spying wife


2

So now alone, she asked her friends
to come and keep her company
To gossip in the courtyard where
they all could sit and take their tea

A courtyard sweet as heaven's door
where roses smelt of cherubs' sighs
And peacocks trailed their rustling tails
of tasselled silk with turquoise eyes

The fountains chimed like chandeliers
each tree sang like an aviary
Ripe fruit hung thick from every bough
and all was just as it should be

But Bluebeard's bride could not discard
the baleful warning of her groom
Nor could she cast out from her head
the phantom of that hidden room

And though she knew that it was wrong,
she sprang up quickly from her chair
Then took the silver closet key
and hurtled down the spiral stair
3
She held the key with quivering hand
and turned it slowly in the lock
But as she did, she met a sight
that sent her reeling from the shock

She'd entered now that nightmare land
where Kraken loom up from the deep
And you no longer understand
if you're awake or fast asleep

That half-remembered childhood world
where goblins lurk beneath the bed
Where witches fly around at night
and everything is on its head

For there, all caked in ruby blood,
a woman lay upon the floor
And peering round the shuttered room
she saw at least a dozen more

Their necks gleamed dark with clotted gore
like pomegranates split apart
While others had been hanged on ropes
or stabbed with daggers through the heart

At which the girl let out a shriek
that could have woken up the dead
And dropped her key upon the ground
amidst the blood of coral-red

Then picking up the key again
she stumbled 'cross the crimson floor
And, choking from the fetid stench,
she raced to slam the closet door
4
Her ordeal though, had just begun
for Bluebeard came back suddenly
And when he did, he told his wife
to show to him the closet key



But then he saw her bloodied hem,
that glare of terror in her eye
And knew she'd peeked inside the room
where he had told her not to pry



"The key," he said, "is streaked with blood
You've poked about inside that door.
Well, Madam, you shall join my wives
and rot with them forever more."



He drew his sword out from its sheath
and held the blade above her head
"Please give me just a little time,
so I may pray to God," she said



"You went against my word," he growled
"You shall not have one minute more"
But, as he gripped his sword to strike,
he froze, then tumbled to the floor-



His wife could scarce believe her eyes
and wept with joy at what she saw
But still she took the sword and plunged
it through his heart, just to be sure.

A hawk-eyed wizard snapped her up
and plumped her in an ivory tower,
So she'd have time to till her brain
and make it tassel like a flower

The tower rose in an Orphic wood
where gold dust showered though knotted trees,
And faerie-antlered stags would strut
while pollen drifted on the breeze

And when he'd tired of all his tricks
the sorcerer would meet her there,
He'd steal beneath the carven tower
then shinny up her golden hair

But he was not the only man
who fell beneath Rapunzel's spell,
A lad who lived beyond the wood
would come to visit her as well
                      2
It pained the boy to see her trapped
This rara avis in her cage,
with such a sweet and youthful face
and yet so jaded for her age

It seemed whenever they conversed
she used some arcane Latin word,
Or lapidary axiom
the like of which he'd never heard

And when the girl would talk about
his Dionysian turpitude,
He'd wonder if he should rejoice
or if the girl was being rude

These men, you see,she'd tired of them
their lure, like gilt  would rub away,
And soon they'd start to irk her as
they clomped around with feet of clay

And though the lad beyond the wood
had picturesquely windswept hair,
She'd feel each time he came to call
as if a storm had broken there


So then one day she took a blade
as he was climbing to her room,
And cut right through her finespun locks
like threads of gold upon a loom

The poor boy tumbled down to earth
and whimpered for a little while,
As she just stood there in her tower
and fixed him with a twisted smile

                    3

Now, free again, she took her paints
of saffron, cinnabar and gold,
and made her jewel-bright manuscripts
like cloistered nuns from days of old

Her boudoir came to life once more
as gold-tailed sapphires stirred the air,
While orchids sprouted up the walls
and tigers sauntered everywhere

And later, when her books were shut
as day was blazing to a close,
Their essence hung there rich and sweet
as attar of the damask rose
            
                  Nox
But once the night-time fell and all,
except her creaking room,was still.
outside the mists were creeping in
that brought with them an eerie chill

Her covers now seemed winding sheets
beneath the opalescent moon
Or folds upon some effigy
supine atop a marble tomb

And then soft snowflakes came, and fell
like lilies on the sleeping wood,
and seemed to seep into her heart
for love had gone away for good

Rapunzel saw at once that she,
had missed these years the scented air
And wandered blinkered as a horse
through catacombs of dank despair

And so, as iif transfixed, beneath
the icy moon's hypnotic glow
She ****** herself down from her tower
and crashed upon the ice below
                  
Then gazing calmly at the stars
as life began to ebb away
she thought about the windswept boy
and knew they'd meet again one day




                      FINIS

ACT ONE

That night a savage tempest raged
the lightning flashed, the thunder roared
And boomed as loud as cannon-fire
While rain in giant torrents poured

But in his room, the prince just yawned
all tucked up in his feather-bed
With perfumed pillows made of silk
and cherubs swirling overhead

He did not think about the storm
or all the soaking serfs outside
The only thing he cared about
was how to bag himself a bride

And though he'd travelled far and wide
he could not find a maid to wed
For each of them just paled beside
the bride that lived inside his head

This girl she had to be, you see,
a "real" princess of bluest blood
Whose lineage stretched back until
that misty age before the Flood

He'd hunted her as if she were
the greatest prize a man could snag
To mount upon his wall just like
a roe deer or a trophy-stag

But still he went to bed alone
until he grew so tired he swore
He would not wed a real princess
unless she knocked upon his door

                ACT TWO

Well soon that knock came loud and clear-
so loud the prince fell out of bed
And there she stood inside the hall
a real princess, or so she said

Her hair was dripping wet and yet
it shone as bright as leaf of gold
And like a young gazelle she was,
though blue and shivering with the cold

She seemed a Tudor miniature,
with such a sweet and pearly face
It was as if a jeweller's hand had
set each feature in its place

But when the Queen came rushing down
to view her through her gold lorgnette
The girl twitched like a butterfly
ensnarled in an explorer's net

This queen she seemed to be the kind
you find in children's fairy-tales
A stiff, white ruff around her neck
and bony hands with claws for nails

A Gorgon in a diadem
with beady eyes and puffed-up hair
A dowager who could have turned
a man to stone with just one stare

And glaring through her opera-glass
with eyes of bloodshot sapphire-blue
She fixed the girl as if she were
A beast to gawp at in a zoo

"But is she real?" the old queen asked
she seemed to think the girl might be
An ignis fatuus or a ghost
and even poked her, just to see.

And so the royals hatched a plot
to see if she was who she said
They'd let the princess stay the night
and hide a pea inside her bed


                ACT THREE

The old queen led the princess through
a labyrinthine corridor
With peacocks staring from the walls
and tigers sprawled across the floor

Then showed her to a cosy room
with tapestries hung all around
A fire was popping in the hearth
and mossy rugs lay on the ground

The weary princess looked about
at all the gilded finery
The mirrors and the silk divans
the crystal and chinoiserie

And there, beneath the rafters, she
could see a bed piled up so high
With mattresses and blankets that
it seemed to tower to the sky

You'd think it would have been a dream
to lie on such a comfy heap
Instead the princess stirred all night
and did not get a wink of sleep

              ACT FOUR

But in the morning when she rose
and grumbled of her wakeful night
The prince seemed not to care a jot
and viewed her with a strange delight

"I've never tossed and turned so much
I'm black and blue," the princess said
"It seemed that something razor sharp
was trapped beneath me in the bed"

"A real princess! " rejoiced the queen,
for only a princess could be
Kept up all night for something quite
as trifling as a garden pea

The girl looked sheepish for a while
and then she said, "I must confess
I'm not, nor have I ever been,
what one could call a real princess.

I told you both a lie for I
was fearful if I did not say
That I was born of royal stock
you would have sent me on my way

The Queen turned pale and stared aghast
then viewed the girl through narrowed eyes
"You're nothing but a fraud!" she hissed
"A lowly peasant in disguise,"

            ACT FIVE

"But what is in a name?" the girl
asked, rising proudly to her feet
"That which we call a rose by any
other name would smell as sweet"

"The treasures that a person has
are not a measure of his worth
And he may be a king though he
is but a man of simple birth."

"Indeed, she's right," the prince agreed
"Who cares if she's of royal stock?
This talk of keeping bloodlines pure
is just a load of poppycock."

Besides this girl is more refined
than any royal I have met
She has no gems or castle for
a princess she is not... and yet

Her hair shines like a diadem
her eyes like jewels of emerald green
With her, for sure, I could fall more
in love than I have ever been."

                EPILOGUE
And so the two of them were wed....
much to the chagrin of the Queen

When sun hangs low and Rome is swathed
in faded gold on winter days
Like Nero creeps the hooded night
To set the dimming skies ablaze

The Emperors now seem no more real
than painted figures on a page
Than onyx head on cameo
or villain strutting on a stage

Those tyrants with their pleasure boats
their marble spas and saffron pools
Who smothered guests in flower drifts
and set their palace walls with jewels

Who lazed in frescoed gardens filled
with citrus fruit and roaming beasts
And gorged on grapes and peacock brain
while hosting wild and lavish feasts

Their temples walls and aqueducts
still stand upon the Hills of Rome
But now they bear a jaded air
like moulderlng golden honeycomb

And so we build our citadels
and rich make fortress of their wealth
But none can halt the March of Time
that sieges all with lichen-stealth

Indeed it matters not if one
is born patrician or a slave
When even those who don the purple
face the shadow of the grave

Their palaces are relics now
once gleaming bronze is stained with rust
While pillars crumble, marble cracks
and flow'ring Empires turn to dust

And 'midst this splendour and decay
I think of all that once was mine
Of ruins and the sighing pine
as sun sets on the Palatine

With velvet slipper, wing of gauze
And robe of black and yellow plush
The Queen hoards treasures in her home
Enough to make a pharaoh blush

And here she lolls and dines upon
her jelly and her pollen cake
Inside a tessellated hive
like something Byzantines would make

The foragers are on their rounds
and as the yawning flowers unfold
They let the bees buzz in to load
their gleaming freight of powdered gold

They've flown their fusty catacomb
to breathe the air of perfumed bowers
To haunt the velvet labyrinths
and silken chambers of the flowers

And once inside, they feast upon
each tiny toothsome nectary
For nectar is the stuff of Gods-
A taste of Immortality

While in her home, upon her throne
the Queen sits fearing an attack-
It won't be long, she knows, until
her workers stab her in the back

For though she lives a gilded life
of bee-bread and of honeycomb
More intrigue swirls within her walls
than in the courts of Ancient Rome