The Lutenist
Shadows follow, Shadows lengthen, Shadows darken.
The Sun disappears under the horizon.
There is nothing else for Frances to keep her eyes upon.
As a lute gently strums to her ears
a measure of joy is felt in her heart
but she frets over the corpulent man beside her.
Alone for so long, she wonders who he might be.
It’s her guess that he is George, a suitor from long ago.
She dares not utter his name or try to speak with him.
She turns and retreats from the balcony to her parlor.
The lamps and candles cause shadows to dance on the walls.
The lutenist follows her into the parlor.
He is wearing a mask covered with green feathers.
He is such an obese man
that his lute seems too small for his fingers.
His music, though, is sweet, and she will not tell him to stop.
The parlor is warm, and she fans herself as she sits upon the chaise.
Her bare feet expose the rings on her toes.
The man in the mask sits on a nearby stool.
Still strumming the lute, he begins to sing.
His voice is gruff and dissonant.
She rises from the chaise and speaks
“Sir, you are perhaps the world's most unsuitable singer.”
She leaves to retire to her bedchamber.
The lutenist follows, as they had played
this scene many times in the past.
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Author:
MendedFences27 (
Offline) - Published: July 24th, 2024 22:26
- Comment from author about the poem: There is more to this than there seems, though it may not be obvious.
- Category: Love
- Views: 9
- Users favorite of this poem: Teddy.15
Offline)
Comments3
lol brilliant. 🌹
Thanks, Teddy15. Well, maybe not quite brilliant, more like passably some form of poetry. I got stuck on the word for a player of a lute.
Brilliant .. brings pure joy to an old fella's imagination .. Neville
Thanks Neville. Any time an old fella finds pure joy, he's probably imagining it.This came to me out of the blue. I was thinking Late 1700s.
Magnificent, set in a classical form it carries on with the last lines like the finale in a symphony give it closure.
Thank you, SB. I felt like some time traveler writing this.
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