Blue Blood

For the fifth year running, at the Comte de Guise’s chateau,
his wife turned forty, yet again, ape masks are all the rage,
frocks hand-stitched in Paris, linen collars which pinch
at the throat. On iron gates the Comte's coat-of-arms
bears the rumour: Il faut circuler. I've just drained a cup
of Methuselah, spot Dominique, circulating, ever with
a different party, and a little further off. The chef slices
into a crenellated pie from which doves scatter. How
swish! a jewelled gorilla sighs through yellow teeth.
There are benches of fried oysters, treacle tart, and
porridge spooned up by a proud garçon who'll answer
only Oui or Non. Then Dominique, glowing, embraces
another, looks my way, as if for praise. The mad acts
we perform to balance ourselves. God alone knows
what it costs to smile, about-turn. I subside on a stool
set back amongst elms, black leaves aquiver, when
Dominique passes, am mute. The bare sky yawns.
So rise, circulate, admire the chamber of clockwork
dolls, each has a name, at the first blush of dawn,
as one, their painted-on beaming faces revolve.