Tuesday, February 5, 2013
From Clare Higgins
Now is the winter of my disinterment
Made glorious news by common digger’s hand.
In a new world they have unearth’d my bones:
Where barded steeds once galloped off to war,
Now metal horses thunder o’er the roads,
And men have stationed them above my grave.
Five hundred summers I slept in the earth
Once grim-faced war robbed me of life betimes.
What good I did was with me deep interr’d;
My honor wounded by a playwright’s pen.
Though I’ll be buried as befits a king,
The scholars still debate my history.
And yet what secrets I would fain unlock,
To all the world’s ears, if my bones could talk.
By Clare Higgins