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The swing has gone, but I, whose links
with Osborne were conjoined with those
of Hafiz Abdul Karim, yet may visualise
the Munshi’s wife, in gorgeous silks
and satins swathed – a plump and comely pendulum,
bedecked with bracelets, chains, and rings,
a mirror, turquoise-set, upon her thumb –
her gold-embroidered veil a-flutter in
the languid oscillations of her flight.
The Orient in essence set against that same
façade which now conceals six modern flats.
I picture, too, the Munshi, bland and bearded,
in highest favour with the Queen,
with blotter poised to dry her signature
on documents he has not failed to read.
And, once again, I see my grandmother,
who served them well – as dignified as any duchess,
ill-paid, no doubt, but happy with her lot
in God Almighty’s Enigmatic Plot.

 

From The Hounds of Cridmore and Other Isle of Wight Poems, a book of Mr Hudson’s poetry with many illustrations by Heather Cobb.

 

T. C. Hudson

© T. C. Hudson.
This work may not be reproduced without prior permission of the author.

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