E”R  (Final Draft)

              by Sara L Russell

Introduction

A raven flies down from the tower,

 a double rainbow overhead

belies the darkness of the hour;

   the Queen is dead,

   our Queen is dead.

                      I

For all being of lower rank than she

it was decreed that we might take a day

to mourn the passing of Her Majesty

to view the crownéd casket, bow and pray;

Yet none might stay, and, slowly moving on,

each one could only look and take a bow,

perhaps thinking of loved ones lost and gone,

or past glory compared to here and now.

And through it all, the tireless BBC

remained, filming from ground and overhead,

(in all their stately press capacity)

all of the crowd, and every word they said;

For all were there to see her lie in state,

Some joined the queue, and some arrived too late.

II

Oh Andrew! How passé thy name seems now!

Oh Harry and thy fair lady so brave!

Such sins forgetfulness may not allow

most memorable of wrongs, yet she forgave.

And so, in sweet forgiveness, passed away

our Queen, surrounded by her family,

upon a temperate September day,

in Balmoral’s great Castle, peacefully.

Oh what a heavy burden is a crown,

a world of weight, upon a monarch’s head;

and what relief, at last, to set it down,

on purple velvet, and retire to bed.

Then cannons roared, church bells began to ring,

for our dear Queen is dead, long live the King.

III

And now her casket, decked with flag and crown,

is viewed worldwide in all its majesty,

by those unknown and all of high reknown

in Westminster’s great Hall, for all to see.

The Holly and the Phil came to report,

joining a queue for press, with ITV,

causing self-righteous masses to retort

that they behaved with impropriety;

Whereas Saint David Beckham took the path

of Holy Lowliness, joining the queue

where none could rest, nor even take a bath,

and some not even find a Portaloo.

Thus spake the dullards: “Hang thy heads in shame!”

Such is the way of ill-apportioned blame.

IV

Oh Harry Styles of Kindness, where art thou,

who had such words of wisdom in a song?

Belovéd Tears for Fears, where art thou now?

Did thy sweet Seeds of Love blossom for wrong?

We had become a nation built on spite,

Yet, now we weep for our belovéd Queen;

(Though some unlikely fellows were dubbed Knight,

Savile, for one, in our pure land of green).

What, truly, a great leveller is death;

Claiming both Queens and commoners alike

(whether they queue or not), their final breath

is final as a knave’s head on a spike.

And oftentimes, each death endeth in tears,

and sometimes death may slaughter bright careers.

V

Now, after all the tributes and goodbyes,

our Queen, within a vaulted catacomb

resteth in peace, away from prying eyes,

In Windsor Castle’s grand family tomb.

Bright blooms are fading now, on tall oak stands

amid a flickering of candle flames

For our Queen rests now in celestial hands,

forever in the Book of Living Names.

She ruled with fortitude and dignity

she was a constant in uncertain years

yet all return to dust eventually

and every particle yet disappears.

Now Charles riseth to be anointed King,

with all the joys and woes a crown may bring. 

Epilogue

Now pigeons fly above the tower

a robin’s voice is heard to sing;

as crowds sing out, with rising power,

“God save the King,

God save the King!”