Coronation

A reflection on the event from the heart of rural Scotland

Crown noun /kraʊn/ from the Greek korōnē meaning crow, or any kind of hooked or curved object

The sky hung heavy that day, 
clouds wreathing the hilltops with the weight of regal responsibility. 
There was no celebration in the streets here, 
kings’ subjects huddled in frigid homes, 
bearing witness in widescreen. 
An invitation to swear allegiance falls faint at this distance. 

Empty streets, traffic-void, 
one gateway flagged and streamered 
its sombre neighbours flanking in judgement. 
Pomp and ceremony happens elsewhere, 
in some other, fantastical place 
of golden carriages and horseback heroes.

One foot, then another, 
over and over, 
up and up, 
past blue-lit windows in the midday murk. 

Exhausted tarmac finally surrendering to dirt 
at the hinterland where town meets forest. 
Up and up, out of town and into the ether. 
Cloud clinging to leaves, branches, eyelashes. 
Implausible pines swallowed whole by the fog. 
Muggy silence shrouding 
the mist-muffled cries of a single crow.

All living things hidden.
Each step away from home carries you deeper into theirs, 
welcome 
or not.

Whispered crunch of weathered boots on nut and needle.
Ancient oak, beech, and birch, 
trunks wide and rambling,
boughs grasping at the brume.
They have seen too many monarchs come and go in their time
to be disturbed by this one.

On and up,
and finally out
of the trees,
and – almost – the gloom,
the shimmer of sun 
tantalising beyond the cloud cover, close 
but unreachable from the hilltop.

Alone and not alone,
the hook-formed silhouette of the solitary crow
the only shape amidst blossom-jilted branches,
his cries piercing now through the mist,
desperate,
but unanswered.