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letra de patterns - jake heggie

i walk down the garden paths
and all the daffodils
are blowing, and the bright blue squills
i walk down the patterned garden-paths
in my stiff, brocaded gown
with my powdered hair and jewelled fan
i too am a rare
pattern. as i wander down
the garden paths

my dress is richly figured
and the train
makes a pink and silver stain
on the gravel, and the thrift
of the borders
just a plate of current fashion
tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes
not a softness anywhere about me
only whalebone and brocadе
and i sink on a seat in the shade
of a limе tree. for my passion
wars against the stiff brocade
the daffodils and squills
flutter in the breeze
as they please
and i weep;
for the lime-tree is in blossom
and one small flower has dropped upon my bosom
and the plashing of waterdrops
in the marble fountain
comes down the garden-paths
the dripping never stops
underneath my stiffened gown
is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin
a basin in the midst of hedges grown
so thick, she cannot see her lover hiding
but she guesses he is near
and the sliding of the water
seems the stroking of a dear
hand upon her
what is summer in a fine brocaded gown!
i should like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground
all the pink and silver crumpled up on the ground

i would be the pink and silver as i ran along the paths
and he would stumble after
bewildered by my laughter
i should see the sun flashing from his sword-hilt and the buckles
on his shoes
i would choose
to lead him in a maze along the patterned paths
a bright and laughing maze for my heavy-booted lover
till he caught me in the shade
and the b-ttons of his waistcoat bruised my body as he clasped me
aching, melting, unafraid
with the shadows of the leaves and the sundrops
and the plopping of the waterdrops
all about us in the open afternoon —
i am very like to swoon
with the weight of this brocade
for the sun sifts through the shade
underneath the fallen blossom
in my bosom
is a letter i have hid
it was brought to me this morning by a rider from the duke
“madam, we regret to inform you that lord hartwell
died in action thursday se’nnight.”
as i read it in the white, morning sunlight
the letters squirmed like snakes
“any answer, madam,” said my footman
“no,” i told him
“see that the messenger takes some refreshment
no, no answer.”
and i walked into the garden
up and down the patterned paths
in my stiff, correct brocade
the blue and yellow flowers stood up proudly in the sun
each one
i stood upright too
held rigid to the pattern
by the stiffness of my gown
up and down i walked
up and down

in a month he would have been my husband
in a month, here, underneath this lime
we would have broke the pattern;
he for me, and i for him
he as colonel, i as lady
on this shady seat
he had a whim
that sunlight carried blessing
and i answered, “it shall be as you have said.”
now he is dead
in summer and in winter i shall walk
up and down
the patterned garden-paths
in my stiff, brocaded gown
the squills and daffodils
will give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and to snow
i shall go
up and down
in my gown
gorgeously arrayed
boned and stayed
and the softness of my body will be guarded from embrace
by each b-tton, hook, and lace
for the man who should loose me is dead
fighting with the duke in flanders
in a pattern called a war
christ! what are patterns for?

- jake heggie

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