King
The golden tiger lay along the branch
above the reeds that edge the lake, and
watched with topaz eyes, a dragonfly
in darting flight, its transparent wings
the only sound.
King of Rantamphur he roamed
and hunted prey around the lake
where scented lilies float
in rocking sheets of white.
the limpid lake lies silent
still the scented lilies rock
and now, he lies in everlasting sleep
along a branch behind the smeary glass
where spotlight beams
shine, like never setting sun,
on beasts whose glassy eyes
and bared hungry teeth
are frozen in time.
the limpid lake lies silent,
still the scented lilies rock.
Pim Claridge