When he realised what had happened to him
He felt the reach for a gun to be the first
To annihilate the onlookers who had beggared him,
Who had badgered him and who had preyed on his mind.
His mind was his own he said and not to be tampered with
But his body was theirs to do with as they pleased.
He did not like it when they put a salve upon his breast
And then looked athither and asquiff at his face
For signs of a beating brain
Inside his head.
For it was a throbbing there for them to see
For it all should be told as a mystery
How he came to be there in the shine of day
How he wanted to leave and yet there was no way
To avoid it – he was in the role for the next hour or more
The role of Vesuvius the man of the Mount
Spurting rupture about. They had incinerated his plan
To be the King of England and they had burnt
To the cinder the Name of his Betrothed.
Elizabeth was one, but he was another who thought a shot
In a dark place was a better thing than a shot on a winter’s day.
And so that goes to show that it is not a fool who wills it but
A fool who wears it primely, like a fool number on the back
Measuring the incant of the Age.
Copyright 2016 Bruce E Saunders