PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

i

Henry Tudor has conquered.  England's crown

belongs to him.  On bloodied Bosworth Field,

the last Plantagenet was force to yield.

No more in England will they ever wield

at whim such unchecked and accustomed power.

We know that two of them dwell in the Tower---

children, protected there, too young to rule.

King Henry will deal with them at an hour

convenient to his plan.  He is no fool,

our Henry, and behind his usual frown

that intricate mind closely counts the cost.

(Of course, he always has to ask his mother's

advice:  she dotes on him; he has no brothers.)

ii

They tell me that King Richard's cause was lost

because he grieved so much since Queen Anne died.

Life had no joy left:  nothing satisfied

him after that.  Her absence from him cast

a shadow, deep and dark, implacably

present.  Without her, time too slowly passed.

No cup of wine, no gold, no happy whore

provided him distraction; neither chattel

nor stock inspired his interest.  Peace and war

were, merely, concepts.  Even heated battle

meant neither threat nor glory any more.

He let us set upon him---fearless man:

I think the death stroke sent him to Queen Anne.

(Although I do not want to brag at all

I was the lad whose blow cracked Richard's skull.)

Henry commanded, "Now a nameless grave,

"must be fit  tightly to this churlish knave."

(The order was specific, with no other

choice possible; thus stated by his mother.)

Curses accompanied the muffled sound

of sod dug, under which that reprobate

should rot.  His well wrought armor, not ornate,

should not be left to shroud him---what a waste

of value we could all appreciate.

Therefore we stripped it from his limbs in haste.

His limp, pale body looked like chickens plucked.

Imagine our shocked silence when we found

silk stockings---blue (Anne's favored color)---tucked

into that crevice under his breastplate.

Starward

[jlc]