In the face of the elegant, gold plate
and glittering Swarovski crystal,
bolt of the finest linen milled
with mostly mallard plume and the rare moss of
the Elysian forest floor, I’d fill a pewter plate
with saffron billowing from a gunny sack
and set the table with taupe muslin
atop red earth and swimming in
the scent of pine and juniper and sweat and sap
and take my perch on rattan in view
of the holy peak ringed round by swans
as dusk creeps in like ink.
There is no more delicate or dainty air
than that that seeps along the wash
of a gully warmed at three by sun
which excites the dust and dander of
the forest’s edge, no perfume
better suited for rest, repose and repartee
with chattering frogs or crickets outside the camp,
no temptress more seducing than
the steady course of footsteps one, two, three
in gaining some fresh ground.
© Henry Kurth 2018