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of Christopher Whitby |
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| Osric's Tale He called me a waterfly. I heard him Plain as I'm standing here. Said it to his friend – Good looking boy, and cultured in a way You don't often find round here – but not for me, Not...not with...you know. Oh, call it a whim If you like – the hat – but for him to send Me up like that! I was in the king's pay, A right royal messenger. So was he Really mad, you ask. I think not. Sharp, sly, Cruel, bitter, twisted even, but he knew What he was doing, oh yes, so why should I Be sorry that he's dead? I'll tell you why. Now we must learn Norwegian ways, who's who, What's in, what's out, what words can make you die. |
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Feb 2007
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| Cinders To tell the truth, I tried quite hard to kick The other one off, as I bolted free To save my shame. I made it in the nick Of time, but, oh, my feet were killing me! Glass slippers...for a ball! Who dreamed up that? A long walk back as well, always in doubt I'd beat the sisters home. Yet there I sat, As if nothing had happened while they'd been out. And then at last he came. You know the rest. Except you don't. I have exchanged one cage For another. Bigger, yes, but now I wage Small wars with courtiers over each request And bound by protocol against my will, I weep to find myself in service still. |
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March 2007
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