Union flags and bunting. The Kings Head. A telly on the wall And a row of mugs Raising glasses. Bottoms up, no shilling (coronation bitter £4 a pint) But press ganged by the Daily Mail All the same. Toasting two crowns. Heads of state wearing uneasy smiles. And ermine gowns That would look better on stoats. Buttoned up to their necks in it Plastic caped crowds dripping long to rain over us The gloss taken off by a guilt-edged prince. No sweat, he’s hidden behind his sister Feather hats off to the seating plan. Placards in the back of an old van. A sick Transit (gloria mundi).* Serried ranks of #NotMyKing unsaluted. And ties that bind Us to a past locked on tradition. Traitors mate. Sedition. Pageantry. It’s what we do. Britain at it’s best. Captured for posterity on countless mobile phones by the I-was-theres swearing oaths Of obsequence. While the megaphones are silenced By the defenders of the faith in blue Uniform thoughts Blue blood And all of this because An accident of birth. Zadok the Priest. Welcome to the King’s Head, Judas. Your shout! But you can’t handle another round and shuffle out. Dragooned. Outside now. Uncrowned. Bare skinned for the flypast. A robin wearing military red. Two medal-ribboned goldfinches. A wagtail conducting this anthem in an outdoor abbey Not just for today but everyday. A pigeon clapping wings And somewhere in the distance a peacock on his throne. ________________________________ *Sic transit gloria mundi is Latin for thus passes the glory of this world.
I was interested to read An Unexpected Guest, a poem by the poet laureate Simon Armitage to mark the coronation of His Majesty King Charles III. This is my poetic response in the spirit of the anti-laureate (a role I think should be established)!
