Last Tuesday, at Green Park

My Queen, our moon

Black moths silken-glide lampposts,
white lettered torches to the path. I hold white 
buds; magpie and raven bow in silent prayer 
whilst men tipped with orange wings sleep 
in wet grass, they guard the way.
Our moon hides behind the clouds,
the air dances with pictures of the day,
an old cinema reel. Shadow men and women,
babes in arms carry roses, lilies, sunflowers,
pink gerberas with ivory hearts. Few of us had
met her. We are neither high nor great, 
yet the sycamore roots fold deep
into the heart of this earth; and one day
in this same earth we shall all sleep.

Shereen Abdallah ©️