Elizabeth

You’re born into history,
Swaddled in pomp and castle drapes,
Weaned like a favorite greyhound in the shade
Of regal, royal, softly-blooming trees –

And then bright youth, exquisite manners,
An empire’s future rolling out
Like endless carpet at your questing feet,
Only to shatter in the masque of war.

You marry, lose a father, gain a crown;
You break your heart a thousand different ways.
The world whirls on; you’re not allowed to change;
We need you static at the maelstrom’s core.

And then you’re old. It happens very fast.
Your husband’s gone; the dogs are older too.
What’s left but England? England, and memory.
You did your duty; all the rest is noise.

The last day at Balmoral, you look out
The ancient window at the new, fresh day.
A bird sings on a bough; the sun grows hot;
You close your eyes, and Philip takes your hand.