The early Spring sprouting of flowers has begun after the big freeze of early 2010: a little bit of sun warming up the soil and the bulbs have begun to dance, their petals rising skywards with vibrant splashes of colour to brighten up our days.
An incited crowd call out loud “The Kings were dead, Long live the Kings”,
as the multi-coloured Crowns rise all around and their chromatic
hues begin to sing;
Now the young heirs stand on tall, early in their youthful reign, resplendent
in their shine,
as the hordes begin to gather, to spread their loyality across each Royals’
And so the legion’s admiration is in excited awe, across longer days
and lazy weeks,
but declines come the first fall of a Monarch’s garland, too aged
and weakened in Phoebus’ heat.
“The sovereignty grows weak!” comes a cry and panic flashes through
the peoples’ voices;
until one answers, “Well, the strongest will be Ruler then!” as all eyes
seek their proudest, remaining.
So, they flit and they fly, they hop and they swap, in hope of finding the
new Emperor, now
and as they search, the once-mighty fall one by one, their faded circlets
tumbling to the ground.
Then finally, a champion remains; aloof of his fallen brethren, alone in
stature but worn.
“Hip-hip Hooray!” come the ecstatic calls but it’s too late: the new King
succumbs and lying at the feet of his people, dies this day.
The voices whisper “The Kings are dead, long lie the Kings…”, echoing
over vivid, broken petals blowing in a breeze;
across fallen snapped stalks, decaying until next Spring.
Only now do they move on, swarming, in search of a new flora Monarchy
before it’s too late,
ravenous on feather-light wings for their seasonal, sweet-nectar feast.
And so, with the Autumn air chilled, chasing the Summer Sun’s blaze
the next new Kings all lie in slumber and wait, sleeping soundly beneath