Her majesty the Queen, Elizabeth the Second of my entire life
reigned over me like a bow until a quarry forklift operator
told Kenny Jackson and Me "they're saying the Queen die."
She was my majesty, now she is Saint Elizabeth of Balmoral,
heiress to the Anglo Saxon monarchs and Saints found
in the histories of Bede’s English Speaking people:,
kings and queens with all their miracles,
created by he or not, the pantheon of his pen,
in whose company Elizabeth of Balmoral has now entered.
The miracles of her rule were simple goodness, the wonders of
her dedicated service were heroic examples of grace under pressure
duties faithfully to her own ascension promise; she was a young
mother who became grandmotherly a rock for nearly
half our nation’s existence: for one third of all international peoples
in the British Commonwealth, whatever their politics and views of
monarchy many are bowing heads to honour her passing, conscious
of her strength of character, her essential goodness in hard places;
for a woman to be, to be the woman to whom elephant matriarchs in
Africa acknowledged her just before he father’s death,
trumpeters of her ascension, the reason for her return to London,
my fair lady-o.
