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Queenhood
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Simon Armitage
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An old-fashioned word, coined in a bygone world. It is a taking hold and a letting go, girlhood left behind like a favourite toy, irreversible step over invisible brink. A new frock will be made, which is a country hemmed with the white lace of its shores, and here is a vast garden of weald and wold, mountain and fell, lake, loch, cwm. It is constancy and it is change: the age of clockwork morphs into digital days, but the song of the blackbird remains the same. II Queenhood: a long winding procession from the abbey door to the abbey door. Queenhood: vows takеn among bibles and blades, benеath braided banners and heralding horns; the anointment of hand, breast, head, with oil of cinnamon, orange, musk and rose; promises sworn in secret under tented gold so daylight won’t frighten the magic away, too sacred by far for the camera to see. It is an undressing first then a dressing up, a shedding of plain white cloth then the putting on of a linen gown and the supertunica – dazzling gold foil lined with crimson silk. Man will walk on the moon, great elms will fail and fall. But a knife’s still a knife. A fork’s still a fork. III So the emblems and signs of royalty are produced: the gilded spurs; the blued steel sword – like a sliver of deep space drawn from the scabbard of night – to punish and protect; bracelets to each wrist, sincerity and wisdom – both armour and bond. Love is still love is still love, and war is war. IV And indestructible towers will atomise in a blink. The God particle will be flushed from its hiding place. The sound barrier will twang with pa**enger planes. Civilisation will graft its collected thoughts onto silicon wafers, laureates will pa** through court . . . But Taurus, the bull, on its heavenly tour, will breach the same horizon at the given hour. V Queenhood: it is the skies, it is also the soil of the land. It is life behind gla** walls and fortified stones. Robe and stole are lifted onto your shoulders – both shield and yoke. Motherhood and womanhood will be taken as read. ‘Mult**asking’ will be canonised as a new word. VI It is an honouring, but also an honour. In the flare and blur of an old film ghostly knights and chess-piece bishops deliver the unearthly orb, with its pearled equator and polished realms, into your open palm; and pa** you the sceptre and rod of mercy and justice, one bearing the cross, one plumed with a white dove; and load your fourth finger with a ring that makes you the nation’s bride; and offer the white kid glove with its scrollwork tattoo of thistles and shamrocks, oak leaves and acorns; then finally furnish your head with the crown – jewelled with history, dense with glory – both owned and loaned at the same time. Do those burnished relics still hold the fingerprints of a twenty-seven-year-old? VII A priceless freight for a young woman to bear, but, draped and adorned, a monarch walks forward into the sideways weather of oncoming years. And the heavy cargoes of church and state lighten with each step, syrupy old gold transmuted to platinum, alchemy redefined. Queenhood: it is law and lore, the dream life and the doc*mentary, a truthful fantasy. For generations we will not know such majesty.
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