by William Doreski
Poplars line the Agout’s banks
where rapids stutter in foam
spiked with reeds and sprigs of willow.
Here servants erect the trestles,
lay wide oak planks and cover them
with cloth dyed the personal scarlet
of Montpellier. Venison pastry,
a gilded platter of boar meat,
silver plates of duck and peacock,
florets of lettuce, hot rye loaves,
ginger preserves, salt and pepper,
tubs of butter. Arnaut de Maruelh
eats heartily as Her Ladyship
and the others, and when finished
stuffs his pockets with oranges,
figs and raisins, tunes his viol,
and sings a nightingale lyric
that will outlive him by maybe
a thousand years. His linen cap,
white trimmed with dark blue silk,
his blue woolen fur-edged robe,
his heavy forest green mantle,
red cendal, buff leather belt
render him too elegant
to critique. The song rises
and falls, the river scuffs along,
and the lady for whom the song sings
itself makes courteous noises
and lightly touches Arnaut’s hand.
His trained expressionless face
smothers the resulting flush,
and the love-clichés he utters
are elegant enough to deny.