is a modest sandy garden.
proud above their pebbled bed.
lies not yet cold on jagged rocks.
about the pools and alien paths.
and pads sadly away into nowhere.
for his faithful old mongrel friend.
The beach lies deserted and quiet.
of small waves lapping on shingle.
golden fleur de lys, symbols of privilege and power.
were enchanted, goblin made in silvered thistle down.
silk and the thud of steel cold lance on leather shield.
Lords joust, ladies play, but peasants all must work.
of ripe fruit, eats and takes his ease as best he can.
draw high stocked carts through the hot afternoon.
mutely submit, helpless in a divinely ordered world.
is sometimes blind and freedom may be a burden.
weep in the darkness for their dying children.
poor men lie awake and pray for a better life to come.
in the bleak church yard their peasants lie forgotten.
were broken on the spokes of Catherine’s cruel wheel.
shattered streets and dreams of a new world crumbled.
for one another should at last become the only rule?