Queen's Army

(Exhumed from mothballed repose, this one).

For you I strove, picking the flower
of every harvest’s flush. The commonwealth of words,
a rowdy lot, repaid my winnowing
with units fit for battle: those rabbled hordes
fell in, dressed their ranks, and faces glowing
with combatant pride, preened in new-found power.

Their fatigues are worn but unscruffy, browned
by the dust of many a skirmish; and their insouciance
a badge they flaunt, as only the charmed reckless
do. At rest, a studied languor limns their stance
as they lean against their weapons, clean and speckless:
and when they drill, their boots punish the ground.

This then for you, their patron queen, in whose fond name
they go to war. Like some ancient, remote empress
you’re unmindful of them, their sterling deeds
brought home to you by me, to press
a suit, seek a lover’s favour when your grace recedes;
or sometimes, like now, to expunge a shame.

***