When a Queen dies, the lowly

page doesn’t know how to pencil

down his thoughts, no confidence

in the might of the pen

or the edge of the sword,

his tears fall to the ground,

silently and with no forever favour

in his heart; for who is there to please

now that the Queen is dead.

Her other loyal subjects

feel the pain of passing with intensity,

the page carries on, there are wars to be fought

and his master, that of time,

is short and blows cold, a tune of wind

eases itself with fury past the bustling tents

and horses of expression whinny and startle

as the page cries out past the trumpets blare,

“No more!, “Let her reign even in silence,

Dear God, let her lay down in peace now”

in a voice of anguish and heartbreak

that had threatened to come

and overwhelm this Page’s mind.

War can wait, it was folly to pick

a fight with time when the Queen lays still;

her smile upon the lowly page,

will come no more.

 

Ian D. Hall 2018.