Rundale Palace, Southern Latvia 1769: The servants in the walls are stoking fires. They scuttle back and forth laden with logs and gossip filtered through papered plaster, unseen, unheard, below-stairs spies cunningly concealed from prying eyes by tall ceramic stoves, tiled indoor monoliths. While bustling scullions race to heat the rooms the minuet of empires intertwines. 1995: The Throne Room, decked in curlicues, segues to the Hall, where plasterers, jeaned Michelangelos, rock to the beat of ghetto blasters, while the stoves in the corners stare unfed. But at the back the garden's a battlefield, the rear facade is pitted as a rock-star's raddled face. But the palace, an ageing courtesan, turns the lines, and the rhythm, to their former state, and the grand rooms of the palace yet flirt with the grace of the minuet. Lyn Moir If you have any comments on this poem, Lynn Moir would like to hear from you: lynmoir@netcomuk.co.uk