***

How lucky, harlequin, you are!
A pretty trap your larky Queen
has set for you. 't's a pit' a bit,
a trip is just a rip in texture,
in text of schedule torn apart,
a part of rattle-snake's game
she plays with rabbit. Magic
titbit of honey art, a bitter drop of honest tar -
the challenge's up, and quite a quiet horror's
filling your soul - a nasty snatchy feeling -
but lo! the healing's nigh,
Wraith-king, so wrathy, dark and high,
the horny archangel who honours you with hell,
for thorny pass is trodden. Northern Crown
enchants you, Mother Nature renders
with Lath and Rath, with Lithos and Rhyton,
with Rod and Route, with roots of art upon which
you dare to tread - and trade Isora's gift
for some elusive thing of fiction,
or fix the crossing of the rose and sorrow,
breeding of deer and reed - till Brid
once sets you free and lets you rid
of earthly royal burden,
blood-rusty sword and vernal fear -
and you are once again the snow that's melting,
the burning wicker man,
akin to nix, to Old Nick's solstice tears.
For kings don't die - they only disappear.