He was the best postilion
I ever had. That summer in Europe
Came and went
In striding thunder-rain.
His tasseled shoulders bore up
More bad days than he could count
Till he entered his last storm in the mountains.

You to whom a postilion
Means only a cocked hat in a museum
Or a light
Anecdote, pity this one
Burnt at milord’s expense far from home
Having seen every sight
But never anyone struck by lightning.  

Patricia Beer

 1967

 = Wayne Vargas