The stiff white tablecloths

they had laid out in the banqueting room

were as bright as fields of snow.

 

The array of knives, forks and spoons,

buffed and aligned to perfection

and which, for some

 

might have seemed a puzzle

were, for the chosen, a promise

of good things to come.

 

Fetched from afar

and packed in ice,

the makings of the feast,

 

untouched by time,

were plated up and tweaked

with a light hand.

 

At the centre of it all 

a swan presided that wasn’t glass

but carved in ice.

 

With a mute eloquence

its sinuous neck

drew back against its body.

 

Absorbing the warmth

and chatter, its finely etched

details would only last so long,

.