Gloriana mortuus est
When the signet from the chamber window dropped
and mournful bronze its dirge caused to be rung,
‘cross moor and fen a Eulogy was flung,
to farthest reaches of the hare and hawk.
The scholar and the cleric passed, hooded, by
their mourning was in many tongues intoned,
their island kingdom restive, empty-throned,
a darkened, chasm’d heart where Sovereign lies.
Faith did lift the scepter to the hand,
and raise it through deluge and through flame,
no plot nor poison could such Regent stay,
in truth as strong and wise as any man.
I hope, though my heart and robes are black
that Gloriana in pace requiescat.
Petrarchan sonnet for Mary Stuart
She draws her cloak as thistle plumes are driven,
blown coldly toward a heart and family lost,
in robes of state worn by cathedral’s ghost,
to languish in the tower at Lochleven.
This is not youth, or will, or golden power,
gone is the comfort of a young love’s breath,
-surrounded by the lust of blood and death,-
now armed with naught but prayer to still the hours.
“Like a commoner, I am to meet my death at eight”.
When morning broke, she came as calm as dawn.
Her relics all would burn, to not a martyr make.
Now knelt, far from her lands and men, her fate
a cipher of her own, her own blood drawn.
To You a soul is given, for Mary’s sake.
Megan Walker calls Washington state home, where she writes in a fortress of books and dog hair.
Sparks of Calliope 