33.

Her pale hair stumbled in the wood, and he rode

To see her singing by a tree, the loam

On her feet deep and red. It was her hair

That made her fall and sit, the light

From the sea nipping her heart. And so

Many wars started over lust by a bough

Or the march from Spain along the sea

And the chansons, even with vestiges

Of England, Normandy and Aquitaine,

Wafted over the swords on to the waves.

She would not recognize herself here,

The ghosts climbing the winding stair, and might

Write another song to counter this bronze

And beauty of the empire fallen.