The Thistle King (From A Portrait of King James IV)

In his hand he held not a rose in glory,

but a crooked thistle, thorn in flesh,

and dressed about his middle

no glowing golden belt,

but a chain of gnarled rusty iron.

The belt reminded him of murder

he could not shake,

the thistle beauty's joke,

today's courtly folly

a thing held coontemptible

as it fades by tomorrow's dawn.

The chain was forged in shame

for a king who had slain his father.

Thistle plucked from unkempt grave

at Cambuskenneth where they interred him,

temporarily, in shame.

So the naked, mourning thorn

is the inheritance

borne by him.

Homespun he stands, this man,

daring the seer to cicumscribe

his dignity,

uncrowned but no lesser,

asking no benediction from time.

The look in the eyes describes

the inner kingdom,

a rule over otherness,

the king of the oncoming night.