I fancy the setting here is the House and Gardens of a very large Stately Home of England.

 

The Harp and the Fountain

Plucked by tumbled fountain waters, arpeggio

harps cascade clear and bright, flow

smooth as polished marble by Michelangelo.

 

Above, drawn by light, Heaven's trim barouches glow

dream-like through veils of rainbow'd mist,

arrow South a skein of Tundra Swans, as the lazy snowdrifts grow.

 

Then, beneath a blue-washed sky, pale and cold as a winter's kiss,

soft as a secret admonition, I watch a marble fountain play;

though choked with ice, she protests that nought can be amiss.

 

But I harken back to darkened shadows, to dappled light and beaujolais,

to times when harp and fountain fell to harmony's seductive guile,

and I sent fools, suited and booted, to shoot the moon away.

 

Chris Hubbard

2017