A Tudor Feast

Red jewel lobster
sits atop a crown;
its ghost hovering atop
as a macabre halo;
spectral tentacles trace back,
sensing a life in water –
floating free,
devoid of garnished trays
and shrill-pitched dogs,
keen to catch a bite.

A monkey fixates,
curiosity creasing brows
while he tucks into fruit,
a well-known favourite;
tiny paws clasping
pomegranate seeds:
ruby coins in a feral clasp.

Courtiers swoon in,
adorned in Tudor finery;
beeswax candles paint
fond, soft-edged portraits
as they bend, ebb, flow
amidst a fluid court;
men kiss hands,
bow neatly in decorum
while ladies blush:
a mock bashfulness.

Henry enters.

A Tudor Feast

All quiver in his wake…

Purposeful,
gilded strides
claim all.

Possession: is his.

Scarlet lobster claws
shake at his approach;
its beady-obsidian eyes
fixed on oblivion,
as the ghost of what was,
faintly whispers free…

invisibly dissipating,
amidst song, frolic, gaiety.