Perhaps the speaker should be introduced:
departed from
Greece, the far distant land,
where
knighthood made him vow to win the hand
extended in
favour, sea eyes, lucid—
of his lady.
They would know him only
as her one
handsome Duke of Edinburgh.
His calling
might have been regal might, curbed,
to taste the
flowers that emit honey,
to rest
bouquet on whitened baby’s breath,
and to be
father of both the lily
and the rose.
For there are swords unwieldy,
and yet the
love streams down, bright and bereft,
of our days
upon the earth, and how we
walked
through desert sands and through snowy fields.
He chose to
speak, and this is what he spoke:
chance
forbade this favour to have his voice,
duty forbade
the end to have a choice,
his
children’s Bible names are what he wrote.
He was not
scribe, nor poet, nor a vice,
he was a
consort, yet rule was quiet
leader, not
daunting or preeminent,
but lilting
his hoarse laugh rang more than twice
at the birth
of a son, through these hallowed
now deserted
halls. Each child would grow, leave,
for their own
adult nefarious reels.
There was a
book of Scripture, that mellowed
into dusty
old regimented leaves,
turned grey
doctrine into the grace that heals.
For a petal
to fall from a rose bud
it must first
blossom in royal red hue;
they crowned
you first and always in the blue
garden
valley—where the prophecy’s nudge
would enliven
and wake us from death first;
recall the
mountains—of sapphire martyred.
You were a
Queen of domains uncharted,
and minions
hid themselves beneath your skirts.
There was a
ringing of the depth of rest—
in all your
nation’s wisdom, and your smile
never
betrayed your deepest warmest heart.
There was
rose of cordiality’s crest
in every
traversed field and forest mile,
you, in each
hospitable gesture, art.
Her dark head
bent over each sonorous
word, each
syllable lent itself to sound,
the height of
golden understanding crowned
beneath a
tenet king incredulous—
His will to
teach would be expedient:
just then,
meek understanding of a verse
so solemn,
vigorous, so full of mirth—
made his
façade no longer lenient.
There was a poem,
sacred, resting there,
beneath her
ivory breast, a nation
signed their
signature into her white throat,
the
reputation of a crown, best here
where the
brown falcons rise at her station,
and “All
Hail!” becomes majority vote.
The rose grew
up the Windsor Castle wall
breathing
wine, it will stand at attention
in red
salute, military mention
with glossy
mahogany in the hall.
Her figure
was reflected in the glass:
there were no
entwined figures in a tree;
spirit of
love hath at long last slain me—
I will not
die—I hope but not to fast
beneath the
ground, when all is lost about.
Shall I be
departed, or shall veiled you?
Deep-dark
rugs shall no more hear or pardon
resting
footsteps, my voice shall not ring out.
English
bluebells fashioned themselves in twos
for your
tiara, and in your gardens.
She bowed her
head and proclaimed eight days rest.
For all of
England was the duty mourned:
she married
every royal child in gown;
the call was
that she nursed them at her breast.
He forbade
that one stray drop fall from this
precious vial
of a Queen in gossamer.
Ruby diadem
and service silver
appeared at
her edict, knighted thistles
in several
orders bent frosted heads.
Lord and
lady, sword and shield now immersed
in her regal
kingdom, ornate and bold,
took from their
packs needle and navy threads,
for the sea
eyes would command their commerce,
while
endorsing plum fairy tales untold.
In the dark
wood where the blithe fairies hide
a noiseless
purple feather fell to earth;
from under
the rib-cage of linear birth
that blessed
diminutive blossomed bride.
The bird it
came from no one knew of lived—
for it was
not a bird of song, but one
of prey, and
on the hunt led the way on
through the
dank woodlands of trees in olive.
The horses
thundered down, they braved the toil
of war and on
from English soil they broached
enemies
undeterred—to leave, reckoned,
blood red.
Fleur-de-lis ampulla their oil—
they were a
solemn front in royal coach,
silvered by
death, opaque blossoms beckoned.
—Emily Isaacson
Photo used by permission: Armstreet Clothing Company
