Queen of Hearts

Paris. August. Freeze frame.
The People’s Princess fades into white light,
Though she never quite reaches
The end of the tunnel.

Outside the gates a sea of flowers
Emerges and their scent
Spreads for miles to reach you
As you hide in your highland fortress,
Lost in another century.

You pace the corridor lined
With antlered martyrs looking
Down on you as a silent jury.
You await their verdict.

High in the surrounding hills
The stag, lonely monarch of the moors,
Is being pursued by stalkers.
He is tired of defending his innocence
Against such predators.
His noble blood flows in the rivers.

London. September. Freeze frame.
You return to face the people.
And they welcome you.
For you are and will remain
Their Queen of Hearts.