Barbara Crooker 

The Very Rich Hours of the Duc de Berry

In January, the duke and his entourage eat from gold plates
under a red silk canopy.  Even his words, Aproche, aproche,
are written in gold leaf.  In the background, a white château,
many towers and turrets, blue slate roof, rises.

In February, the rest of us warm our shins by a paltry fire
as snow blankets the sheep pen, dove cote, and beehives of straw;
in the corner, pigeons bicker over stray seeds.

It’s March; the peasants tend sheep, prune vines, break sod
with an iron plough, the usual in every kingdom. 
The rich have healthcare; the poor do not.

April comes: the aristos frolic on the lawn, which is the pale green
of newly minted cash—  Their clothing, satin and patterned velvet,
drapes elegantly on the grass.  The peasants swim bare-assed in the river.

Now ‘tis the merry month of May, and the nobles ride
their milk-white steeds to gather flowers, grasses, leafy
boughs to decorate the court.  The peasants do not;
why bring your work home with you?

We all make hay in June with scythes
and pitchforks, reaping what we’ve sowed.
But not keeping the coin.

Then the corn is cut and the sheep are sheared in hot July. 

In August, a hunting party rides off with falcons on their wrists,
while the peasants bring in the sheaves, hallelujah.

September finds us bent double picking grapes,
loading them in panniers on mules or vats in the oxcart.
My lady strolls in scarlet silks up the ramparts,
while Gustave, in the foreground, has no underwear.
A harvest moon rises.

In October, scholars stroll in front of the Louvre;
a peasant on an old nag tends the field, his harrow
weighted down by a large rock. Another man
broadcasts seed; the magpies and rooks rejoice.

November means time to feed the pigs,
knock down acorns to fatten them up.
Later, they’re butchered, cooked and salted,
conserved in ash. Hams hang in the rafters, drying.
The blue stream in front of the château runs
between the mountains, like a dream of peace.

And then, December, when we hunt the boar
with spears, swords, and a pack of dogs;
blood all around.  The keep and square towers
of the château rise, in alabaster splendor,
always, in the unapproachable distance.

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Conde Museum, Chantilly

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