Amid the Heather
I think it fitting,
That here I remember you, our Queen.
Here in your favourite corner of your realm,
Amid the heather, bog myrtle and fern,
On a soft and mossy carpet, I respectfully sit.
As you lie in grandeur at Westminster,
Subjects file past, thousand upon thousand,
Some cry, others bow or quietly curtsey.
Surely you would rather be
In your beloved Highlands.
Far from flummery and excess deference,
Walking through the pines and birch trees,
Philip at you side,
Corgis at your feet.
