This is one of my first ones that I wrote for AudaciArt magazine during the pandemic. I hope you like it but any comments would be appreciated.
Make haste ere the plastic tubes on her face lose power
And force the last breath from her breast.
Her subjects expect her everlasting quiet fear and domination to stay,
Keeping us adhering to that which we know best and love.
'Mother dear, may I draw near
Into thy chamber alone?', said he,
The eldest of four.
But were those four plucked
From her breast at birth
And offered to the nannies in waiting?
She can consent but lacks the strength
To lift the guilded pen.
And so into her hand he dutifully places it
And resting his hand o'er hers
'Mother I love thee, but trust me yet this once more ma'am'
His hand guides hers to make its mark.
Unyielding it flows in smooth rivers of ink to give its assent.
It is done. She exhales.
What now for this solid kingdom with its prince of doom?
She signed as so many had signed in her name
Before their kittens were ta'en away too soon and cast upon the heap.
Will he write letters to his lady friends and gurus
Seeking wisdom and forgiveness?
He arrives. The childlike King to be kept in aspic, preserved for the near future.
Establishing the constancy of orders and never changing expectations to be signed off.
Years and years ago I had a brush with royalty that has always put me strongly on Diana’s side. I am one of those who won’t be able to accept Charles as a king due to how she was treated by him. And I myself strongly dislike Camilla because she hunts. A godmother of mine lived in Gloucestershire with her large lands and doomsday house when I was a girl. I, personally, like many others had hoped that we would skip a generation.
Reading Dan Brown’s Da Vinci Code brought back all those errors in the Paris tunnel crash for me. Why was Diana travelling in a reconditioned post-crash vehicle at all, what was that blinding light moments before?
Later I was shocked to read my own tale of abuse in Mouthing the Words by a Camilla Gibb. Probably nothing that hasn’t happened to other people but for me alone it resonated horrifyingly – secretarial role playing with daddy, pianos. After being a feminist activist I soon learnt from my online groups on Yahoo that Camilla Parker-Bowles was now an advocate for female literacy – really! I hope she didn’t write that book. I use a pen name by the way.
Nothing against Liz though, she is remarkable to have stayed so long and a trail blazing feminist within her constraints. I ran in front of her car as a guide by mistake as we shooed geese out of the drive at Fountains Abbey one Maundy Thursday. I was wearing a borrowed Ranger blouse, from a vicar’s daughter, as I had left guides a couple of years before. Up close she was just an ordinary person like us all.