This officious darling, too old
for me, with steel-eyed glances;
offers me a hand and
a Fabergé egg.

The cold lights of the Malverns
in winter are anthills.
In my heart, I decline, and go
to prowl before the world's river.

Scooping up vanity in my arms
I deposit the screaming bundle
on steaming bank, smooth leaf
and unpick iron links.

Soon his money's out
of the question and I retire
to the servant's quarters,
where I scan the obituaries;

When, of a sudden, I am there,
the buxom blonde, a fingernail
filed sharp, blunt, cold,
doused in carbolic glaze;

Kissing him, in moonlit trench
outside window where
careless talk wreaks havoc
in the primrose bushes.

These screams grow louder
and I insist, as he would
to give me time to decide,
to let me see if love curbs pride.