Federigo's Falcon
That look of fierce disdain, nobility!
That regal plume of chestnut ruddy-brown
with speckled breast! No hint of weak servility
besmirched the falcon's fine, imperious frown.
He loved the way it sat in proud tranquility
above his desk. He gazed down on the town
which spread below his window with an air
of brittle hope (or thinly-veiled despair).
Ser Federigo was of noble stock.
His patrimony took in twenty farms,
with crops of chestnuts, olives, pullets, cocks,
but penury now ruffed the millpond's calm.
The poplar copse and barn were now in hock,
low pastures sold. The nephews were alarmed!
So, piecemeal, parcels, paddocks mortgaged off
provided funds for gifts. We mustn't scoff
to learn that Federigo was in love,
and sadly, wholly, profitlessly so.
Fair Monna was the delicate white dove
to Federigo's clumsy clawless crow.
You've met her kind. Serene, aloof, "above",
while Federigo worshiped from below.
She took the necklaces, which she construed
(as Beauty will) as nothing but her due.
Estates and tithes were frittering away,
but little Federigo cared. His two delights
were Monna, and the falcon. Come what may,
he fantasized on lonely, frugal nights
of riding into Fiesole one day,
attended by a dozen sybarites,
(and though she's someone's wife, and someone's mother)
the bird on one arm, Monna on the other.
And now to Monna. When her child fell sick,
she watched in anguish as the boy declined.
The fever burned. He hung between the quick
and the departed, in his crisis pined
for one thing only - could this be the trick
to save him? What was on his raving mind
was Federigo's falcon. All's not lost.
She'd get the bird, no matter what the cost.
Imagine Federigo's sudden joy
to see her, dressed divinely, walking up
from Fiesole! The few he still employed
were summoned. "We must drink from pewter cups,
no stint of treasure!" Pleasure unalloyed
was in his grasp. "She's sure to stay and sup!
So plunder pantry, bring forth soup and fish!
Damn! Is there nothing for a special dish?"
For once, she was approachable, it seemed.
They talked and drank, and flirted with their eyes.
This was better than he could have dreamed!
Her thin silk dress defined her shapely thighs.
The moment came. The pewter platter gleamed
as it was carried in. "Here's a surprise!"
The lid was lifted off, at his behest.
There, trussed and roasted, lay the falcon's breast.
Copyright © Michael Coy | Year Posted 2017
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