MCGONAGALL'S MUSE
"You are not poet to Her Majesty; Tennyson's the real poet to Her
Majesty"
My muse was the Queen, of course, no doubt about it.
That gracious lady - who could help but love her?
Respectfully of course, from a discreet distance.
Victoria inhabited my head, graced the furniture
Of my mind - nodded regally, suggested a poem.
I bowed deep, took up my pen, and wrote.
Then one day I put on my pilgrim shoes,
Locked the door of my cottage, set off.
I wore out three pairs of shoes on that journey,
Stopped at the occasional inn to play Macbeth,
Finally arrived at Balmoral. The gates were shut.
Necessary, I suppose. I know she knew I was
Outside. Considered, reckoned up my poems with
My worship, decided to remain inviolate.
Dear lady, you were surely right, but it is hard:
Can poems compensate such deprivation?
And the cost of all those pairs of shoes.
ROBIN HAMILTON
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