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An old one which I found while clearing out, prior to my house



Queen’s Bedchamber, Versailles

(Photo: Creative Commons Attribution- Share Alike)


You laid your head on cushions embroidered

with heartsease, roses and eyed peacock plumes.

An eagle resplendent over your bed,

its outstretched gullet menacing the room

was ostrich feather crowned. L’Autrichienne,

you primped and preened before the tarnished pier.

Brioche? Cake? Bread?  Cela ne fait rien.

You never expected that you would hear

a distant drumbeat of insurrection.

Shaven, you were in it up to your neck.

No one admired your pale throat’s reflection-

your bolster exchanged for a wooden block.

No shepherdesses attended your beck

and peahen call- for you had lost your flock.

Those below, sheep without a good shepherd

bleated egalite, fraternite,

imagining they’d purge l’etat of merde,

as you bowed out to face eternity.