A courtier strides along, his feathers
straightening in the breeze. His boon
has been denied. From his clenched left
fist extends a mountain range as grim
as Atlas. He mutters so coherently that
a quartet of wind instruments is darkly
visible at the edge of the forest. He
puffs his cheeks to snort angrily but
the clouds scurry away in tatters.
Upon the right the brightness of the
court defies my technique, tingling
with business at the defeated courtier’s
shoulder. The queen is leaning out
a casement kissing pigeons while
a smiling lady holds the queen’s clean
coif. The green pride at his feet glares,
forbids the courtier’s looking back.
On his nape he bears the azure whole.