The Spirit of Catherine Howard Do you sense me, as the others do, Henry? My spirit is a kind of silk, Butterfly new I brush by your tapestries And entwined carved initials In the wood That were never mine. I glide over your marchpane displays, Your sweet, savage tooth That bites. Your delights live here, In this court of sugar kingdoms But so do the sprites, The shades, the foreshadows of decay. I will dance a slow dance here Of the spectacle I wanted. Can a ghost be desired? You look up sometimes – Whether at me, I don’t know. But your goblets still dribble over with greed With dead queens watching. LJ Ireton
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