Elizabeth

I wash up like flotsam,
scattered upon her white bosom.
A lady of the night,
of candles and wine,
books of poetry laid open
like cut pomegranates.

Old, beastly furniture
stalks the den,
a game of chess suspended.
From another room, she says,
join me, lover of games,
on the board tonight.

And the windows are open.
Cool summer stars
revolve invisibly
round the black dome of sky.
Moonlight strikes the portico
cold white.

And I, a subject in her court,
find myself inspired.
She is royal,
daughter of a secret crown.
Blood-lipped Elizabeth,
she moves without a sound.

- D.N. Knight