Funeral of Queen Mary

Morning and turbulent dreams
in the chapel lies a dead child knight
I am holding his small marble hands
he tells me hush, hush.
I open my eyes to stillness.

Out there its Elizabethan
white frost on the silver roof
crows, bare branches
wood and wings—one sleek drama
glistening. Winter. Tallis scholars sing
from the clock radio
thou knowest lord the secrets of our hearts
for the funeral of Queen Mary.

Processional.
Black trains trail, sweep brush
through the bright snow.
Let the ice tears be shed.

And here has happened a rare
and secret thing
a december mystery
a late arrival in this room last night
doors were unlocked
and some sweet tenderness ushered in.
Your face wakes quietly
a new reign has come today.

 

 

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