The
Ladies in Waiting
by Wendy Freebourne
The ladies in waiting have laid themselves bare,
cast off the gaudy clothes of summer,
their courtly guise,
and stand, dark against
the winter sky, like wizened old whores,
their bony fingers pointing
skywards. They have had their day
of dancing, greedily-clad in splendour,
seducing youthful lovers to lie
under their branches and while away their lives,
flirting meaningless words
into dream-addled ears.
Now they whisper to each other,
bough against bough, dry
in the ghostly,
sibilant
air.
Gossip, gossip, huddling
together in reminiscing, chewing
over the choicest yields of yesteryear.
Those were golden days, the idle days.
Those were the days
when the world was young.
They did not care.
Now they stand serious, furrow-browed,
trunks puckered in thought.
They are cold, contemplating,
meditating, waiting
for the spring to come again.
Time will add its annual
ring
to their trinkets and baubles then.
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