(1619-1682)

 

The lonely queen’s poppet, her living toy,

he was no more than eighteen inches tall

the day he burst through the crust of a pie:

the model of manners making the man,

his step as sturdy as a cavalier's.

                        

In a childish age he seemed a wonder,

the butcher’s boy from Oakham, whose father,

a brawny-shouldered oaf, supplied the beasts

for baiting rings, his wily lad stepping

featly to the scrape of a country jig.

 

At least the child had made his way, his wits

above the average and blessed by what

he lacked, when a duke – who had turned his hand

to nothing beyond court masque and intrigue –

allowed him his chance to hog the limelight.

 

Yet how much darker the shadow he casts

than that of a fop or the popinjay

he shot for a slight to his self-esteem

among the performing fools and monkeys,

the sights you’d see in a travelling show.

 

His one act of recklessness annulling

the life he’d gained, he was exiled, enslaved,  

then ransomed decades later. All he left

behind were bones, his name, and one receipt

he had signed in his tired, wavering hand.