While trumpets sound and choirs sing,
another sovereign topples down,
the gloss worn from his royal crown;
and all his minions hold their breath
in fear that they may topple next;
and wonder just how much they know
and who will stay and who will go;
and, if they go, who’ll take their place
to profit from this royal disgrace.
Long live the King. The King is dead,
the crown has tumbled from his head;
yet, while his courtiers gnash and moan,
another monarch mounts the throne.
© Abigail Wyatt
Lord Patten: trust in BBC needs to be restored - video
Abigail lives in Redruth in Cornwall where she writes poetry and short fiction and does her best to remain positive. Her new blog is: abigailelizabethwyatt.