Four Poster Bed. Poem by Fay Slimm

Falsely draped now,
In not so new
Bed hangings,
Of nondescript hue,
It solidly stands.

The embroidered flowers
Seem sun-bleached.
And dusty from hours
Of afternoon light.

Try as I might
I just could not imagine
A Queen, seen asleep
In this bed.
It has to be said
She would have to climb
High to reach even the base.

Stool in place.
And, ornate satin
Ceiling looming above,
Leaning, I fear,
Towards the obsene,
She would bury herself
In this ancient bed.

Curtains would then most
Surely be drawn
And come morning
The air would be frigidly dank
With rank smell
Of a four poster night.

It would seem from prose
What disgraced the use
Of four posters were those dark
And often most secret
Deeds, which were posed
As clandestine truce.

Attracting attention,
Opposed to correction, but
Being brought out, dusty now
And fiendishly exposed.

Such details delight the public face
As we, grouped, now stand,
Grandly sanitised, and wise.
Widening our judgemental eyes.


Beds now are preferred
As embodiments of facelessness
Love, given only to lustiest
Twenty-first century pace.
.