The Death Of Kings Poem by Laurence Overmire

Old Duncan was killed in battle, Bill
Not in the dramatic cushion of a horrible
Night's unfitful sleep
The Porter screaming in alarum

No, Macbeth not quite so cold
In the real glare of gone yesterday

But, oh, you gave him blood
The sludge of ambition catching
In his veins
And great conjecture to finger his wife
Old Gruoch
Lost like a ripped-out page

Of history

These things we see now in our minds
Immortal
The truth long hidden in shades unworthy
To take the pen of poets
Who glean ‘neath the covers this daily bed
The radiant sun of morrow.

~ Laurence Overmire

(Previously published in The Ghost of Rabbie Burns: An American Poet's Journey Through Scotland, Indelible Mark Publishing,2016)