Up here, a mottled sky of pale
blue-grey.  The birds are festive,
happy all around, singing their
hearts out.  In the field below
a lamb bleats.  I hear a cuckoo.
The air is cool but gentle,
brushing the branches on its way.
A red squirrel is at the nut
box, banging the lid.

Down there, people are yawning,
packing up beds, greeting the
hot, rising sun, and preparing
to wave and yell their hearts out
at two people going by in
pomp and circumstance.  There is
bunting, there are flags, the army
are called in, their horses gleaming
all harness polished to the bone,
oil on the hooves.  TV cameras
have sprouted like forests and
the world's press descends
from far-flung places.

One woman and one man,
such luxury and privilege,
golden ease with diamonds
for breakfast.  But skin on skin
in the privacy of bedroom and
private moments they are
people warts and all with their
good days, their bad days
their sorrows and their rage.
I wish them well, those two
in their carriage.

One Year Round The Sun
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