The guard nods on the parapet,
the moon is shielded by clouds,
Across the flagstones
in the small light
the robe that catches in the wind
and floats away;
the soft slash of water
and laughter.
In your presence
I am diffident,
soft and weak,
the mantis
whose head
is hacked off and rolls away.

Bathsheba:

Beyond this wall
are gardens I have not known
echoes that will carve me in stone
issue of battle and storm,
Isaac in Esau’s raimant
claiming a throne.
Night claims me
just as your arms
when the gates slam shut.

David:

I am always poised
but detached,
glancing sideways
at you
like a dog
wanting to be scratched,
and those sharp nails
trace the angles of my face
inviting me,
the malice in your eyes
ingesting me,
bit by bit,
and wasn't it always this way?

Uriah the Hittite:

I saw you, Bathsheba
slipping through the shadows
of the square
your light blue robe clinging
to your still damp form,
your hair wet.
My wineskin was empty.
my eyes were glazed,
but I knew you were bound.
to wrap your pale skin,
to conceal your sin.

It was too easy
to catch his eye
to drop your robe
though the desert air was cool.

The Preacher:

I have told this tale
well enough,
nothing changes much,
Vanity,
except the colour of the smoke
swirling in your absent eyes.