Would Be King

He who Would be King

Each November
outside my bedroom window
is revealed the face
of one who would be King.

It’s no surprise
that he resides inside
a mighty oak,
the very King of trees.

He bathes naked
while he braves
the steaming cold
in early winter sunshine.

He is the jewel
resplendent
in the oak’s
high crown.

He looks down at me
while I lie in bed
and drink my
morning tea.

His eyes follow
every move I make,
even as I step
into my underpants.

He probably thinks
I’m bowing
in deference
to his glory.

And when
the wind is up
I see him mouthing
and thrashing,

marching on the spot,
puffing and blowing
and swaying
with the storm.

He is a perverse
incumbent
of my winter
garden.

It just requires
imagination
to recognize
his kingly gaze.

The shapes
between
the branches
form his regal pose.

Squirrels chase
each other
round and round
and scratch his back

and magpies
cackle
and flip their tales
in deference.

I call him
'Beerbohm the Mighty'
residing as he does
within a Tree.

I am struck
by his theatrical
countenance
and airy gestures.

He is the
Great Pretender
but
I applaud him still.

No Caliban
or Thane of Cawdor
was more
splendidly portrayed.

As always
he delights
in standing
centre stage.

With the drapes
of summer gone
he reigns until
return of spring,

when new leaves
swell upon
the boughs
to hide his majesty.

And now
September wanes
and I count the weeks
to his reveal.

As the first leaves fall
I prepare to throw
the curtains wide
and bid him welcome.

The equinox
is past and
now, at last,
The King cometh.