Something random inspired by a trip to the National Portrait Gallery and the odd placing of portraits of Elizabeth I and Mary, Queen of Scots together.
The body of a weak and feeble woman left me many centuries ago,
But my heart remains,
Trapped within a canvas, behind the glass,
never defined in life by man,
No Dudley, no Alencon, No Anjou,
Even my father gave up that ghost
but always and forever by her,
In the frame next to mine
I have majesty, she mystery
I command this room, I dominate
the landscape and yet...
the faceless multitude stare at us both
Seeing me in the context of her,
They change in height and dress
We never do
They glance - slightly fearful at me
Whilst they smile at her
Does she still manage the magic?
The sensual charm from her darkened eyes?
Does she draw even these men to the enseamed sheets of her luxurious bed?
Would they kill for her?
Would they die for me?
I remain here
as in life
of her majesty, of her sisterhood, of her divinity
I'll feel it seems forever the fall of the axe at Pontefract
Can she feel the sword on the neck of my mother?