Thursday, March 15, 2007

More on the long-serving heir

All this pondering on the fate of Prince Charles has left me with a sense of deep, only partly ironic melancholy, which as ever can only truly find expression in a quick burst of verse...

Heir Apparent

An old hand – the oldest – at waiting,
But still never learned to sit still.
An old master’s thwarted apprentice,
A grand young duke, over the hill.

Neither up nor down, but always marching,
But on every newsreel falls the cursed
shade of the shy exhibitionist
blonde mistake that you fell into first.

Now her branches beneath you are spreading,
Their flowers bloom bright while yours dim,
And it’s hard not to fall when a life is
spent so publicly out on a limb.

So on with the ceaseless crusading,
Set forth once more unto the breach,
For country! For farming! But purpose
is forever just out of reach.

But perhaps one day yet you’ll find meaning
in those rustic pub, foxhunting scenes,
Or maybe you’ve found it in love now
(or in whatever ‘in love’ means).


Harry Eagar said...

Is he really the oldest? I thought Edward, Prince of Wales was.

Brit said...

Well, Charles is the oldest current Prince of Wales. Call it poetic license, Harry.

Adelephant said...

I can't help thinking that this poem would work slightly better if written for Andrew, Duke of York. Charles's poor little brother is now only 4th in line to the throne (after William and Harry)- what's the point of that?

Brit said...

But Andrew is free to enjoy his pointlessness. Charles is permanently in the waiting room, and thus has far more pathos.