The Golden Prince
The lazy river winds around
The centre of an ancient town,
Where men and women oft are gowned,
Where hourly the bells resound.
And he stands in the square.
Across every bridge the people flow
Like the river whence, below,
Come cries of coxes to those who row.
And he is unaware.
Down cobbled streets, that narrow wind,
Poor and rich, they tramp in kind.
Though dazzling sun near leaves them blind,
Each one yet knows how to find
The man they call the king.
Blinking in the brilliant light,
All look up to their delight,
Awestruck by the wondrous sight
Of such a beauteous thing.
Gallant and gleaming, gilt in gold,
He towers above, standing bold.
A perfect statue, a prince of old,
Hot in the sun, though his heart is cold;
But this they do not know.
He feels the sun that warms his face
And accepts his admirers with noble grace.
He loves to be loved and knows his place,
The statue that stands aglow.
And no one sees, as they stand in thrall,
The figure by the market stall,
A quiet girl who stands there small;
And not one sees or hears her fall,
On one such day, in love.
That day and every day thereafter
She longs to make him her own partner.
Heedless of the crowd’s gay laughter,
She gazes longingly above.
Day after day she weaves her way
Through the crowds, o’er river grey.
Her heart’s desire she must obey,
Though in the din none hear her say,
‘I shall die if we must part.’
This emotion she cannot comprehend;
The general awe it doth transcend.
So she gazes up until day’s end,
Deaf to all but her heart.
She knows he is a statue and cannot feel,
Although the others believe him real.
Yet though to her desire she dare not yield,
Against blazing beauty she hath no shield.
She knows what she must do.
Silent she goes, swathed in night;
Her curiosity she can no more fight.
Gently feels the statue, a touch so light:
At last joined with her love one and true.
But that golden touch ev’n in night is fire,
A flame that adds to her desire
And sets ablaze her body entire.
‘How,’ she shrieks, ‘can this transpire
From a love I thought so pure?’
In desperation she tries to flee,
Cursing in her agony.
From this flame she can never be free,
For alas, there is no cure.
The golden prince finds strange this show,
As he stares in contempt at the sight below.
She turns a corner; he does not know
That she seeks the river’s angry flow,
With its cooling waters deep.
In the lazy river lit by dawn
They find her floating there, forlorn.
Her final breath in the night was drawn,
But, free at last, she may sleep.
The procession winds past a statue tall;
His bejewelled eyes notice, beyond the pall,
An empty space by the market stall.
‘Funny,’ he thinks, ‘I do recall
A figure standing there.’
But a statue cannot feel pain nor frown,
Much less know what it is to drown.
Unless one day they melt him down,
He’ll forever smile in the square.
(2014)
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