Ensconced upon a throne
of emerald threads, sweet
Claudine cocks one petite,
pearl-adorned ear towards
a majestic plane tree, absorbing
the bonny verse of the chestnut
caped delegate through every
parcel of her slender, Sunday
morning frame.  Delight permeates
the air, plunging from the sky in
broad, even strokes until the paint
on his tenacious throat runs dry.
My sun-drenched siren turns her
almond eyes down to the tome
which she clasps between citrus
spattered palms, unaware that our
fashionable guest has abandoned
us in order to uncover his own
kingdom.