By Richard Mather
Lord Ardenforde opens a jewellery box to reveal
a platinum brooch, rhodium watch, immortal diamond choker;
and on the quiltwork, a tiger-eye necklace pendant.
Exclamations clamour as seven yellow balloons ascend
to the Taj Mahal painting that hangs from the ceiling beams.
Soap-skinned Valentine looks on astonished,
an obsequious grin dripping from his amazing hollow face.
Plush telephones purr politely. Butler tuts at discarded children,
the property of Annie-in-her-cloak. Servants polish and whisper,
their faces starched and blank as paper.
The musicians and clocks chime in elegant harmony.
A palatial figure sweeps through the masquerade,
followed by a clutch of toad-mouthed Americans,
Fidel-Castro-cigars dangling from their rich lips.
Chocolates on a tray disrupt the brandy talk.
Luminescent heroes with their transparent starlets
dance and flash their smiles before the social mirror:
powder and paint, buckles and cuff-links, tiaras and teeth.
Lord Ardenforde, standing by the moon-washed windows,
cries for the jester. Alas, the courtyard is empty.
He strokes his moustache and the banquet is over.
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