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The Late Queen Was
Never Late
 
How often she must have slipped away
From beside his sleeping bulk
To peer forlorn into the night
And down into the gardens below
And wonder would this waxing moon
Harvest yet once again
Those dread royal flowers.
How often she must have prayed
O let it be this time O please
Let the heir find the garden within
Fertile enough to bloom and grow.
How often she must have prayed that prayer
To grant she reap her own continuum.
 
Carolyne Butler
(Copyright © 2000)