A year has passed since he was last
beneath her Roman garden borne:
twelve moons in shadow have been cast
and gently, stirred leaves on the lawn.
Reborn, he found myself no more
alone among the crowd, but perched
at the toes of her piano:
the prelude to their coupled verse.
In Edinburgh – her name revealed –
Rolled the stone, strolled royal miles.
Then, still, before Ross fountain, spilled
words and wishes; kisses; smiles.
Durham – sweet Durham’s river clear –
where dreams are dreamt and soaps gifted,
carillon bells peal out the year,
and the lovers’ hearts are lifted.
The morning sun on York Minster,
is risen; I grind; robust; sanguine.
I turn and bite my thumb at Caesar.
“Your voice falls hollow to my Queen.”
[a nod toward the bard is made: R&J; A1 S1]