Ten Minutes

                                                                                          

So cold, so cold.

My hands are so cold, and I cannot feel my feet.

My fingers and toes are numb

And I shiver, yet must succumb

To those men, those harbingers of my final heartbeat.

Spring sunshine never shone so sweet

Through that narrow gap in the wall.

May.  Spring.  I wish I may fly away from it all

And never return to this moment.

They are coming, I see them walk with purpose

Along the bright, green length of polite and courteous

Grass that will soon stain bright and red

With my innocent blood. Not guilty, not guilty.

My insistent pleas fall upon ears that will never listen.

I am caught in their treacherous web.

Like a moth, I flew too close to the flame and my wings

Are starting to burn.

I allow myself to be prepared

In sombre shift and gown. I wonder that

They allow me to be spared

The axe.

The patrician sword awaits my slim neck

And my mind cannot accept any of it.

Why bother? Why comb my dark and whorish hair?

For who will even care

When my white face gazes up in disbelief at the severed neck

Which lies bleeding on the straw.

Is it mine?

Today I will die, according to the law

Of this monster I once loved.

And still love; will always love

For the next ten minutes, which is all that remains

Until my spirit will fly like a dove

To God, if He exists.

Ten minutes.

My life is ticking away, I start to pray

For forgiveness, absolution  -  for retribution

Against this miscarriage of justice.

My ladies fuss about me, weeping softly

And I wonder at the fact that tonight                              

They will still be here, in the gently fading light

Of England’s purple dusk, when I am gone,
Like a reluctant child sent to bed, yet the party continues....

My sun sets already behind the lofty

Columns of men’s ambition.

How can I feel contrition?

The small life in my cell continues quietly,

The spider crawls silently, dispassionately

And a fly flits to and fro, oblivious

Of my complete and utter terror.

I smell the damp, the denial of spring-like warmth

As the knowledge of the horror

Of my last few minutes seeps slowly

Into my desperate consciousness.

I must wear a coif. My neck must lie exposed

To the swift and shining sword

As it flies humming through the air

And cuts cleanly like a butcher’s knife.

Severing my life.

Will I detect the metallic scent of blood

As it flows in a rushing, gushing flood

Before my fading, once-bright eyes?

My prison door opens.

I am ready.

I must keep my appointment with

Monsiuer Rombaud and his shining sword.

Farewell, my Lord, though you left me without a word.

Anne Boleyn