The nesting birds in the bitter sun
Are remote in time and space
From the life of this crook-backed king
Shadows from his mediaeval reign
Breed mysteries, modern conspiracy theories
Wounds are stamped
On his body’s bony scaffold
With its jaw in a silent yell
Words spilled out in the soil
Of the intervening centuries
In the grounds of Leicester Cathedral
A thrush shatters the frail armour
Of a snail. Somewhere, a mute swan’s gliding
Scandal’s been dragged through the mud
For a second telling
The dead have no right of reply
Remember this, both lilac and laburnum
Like kings, have a limited flowering
Their scent lingers a little
The air moves on
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem