George had been reading The Scarlet Pimpernel. No one had come up and knocked or burst into this pale green room and for once he didn’t care if Demeter had gone to the moon. He could hear the urgent thump of hooves and his back broadened as he became a man who could cheat the guillotine. He had borrowed his father’s new aftershave that morning and the lingering hint of coffee made him stretch out his muscular legs and admire his magnificently muddied leather boots,capable he knew, of anything. He had even writtten a poem for his love. Inked out the words that he would press to his heart beneath his torn jacket when all around was the French mob baying for bloody venegeance.
Velvet masqued
you glide across the timed space
of words offered like Ariadne’s thread,
my counting down,
until the Courage of your mouth-
The sudden heaven of your nape
inclining slender
scented vanilla, caramel,
mandarin voiced,
carry me away, humble,
awed
you.
