Queen Anne is holding court today
beneath a sky of stone,
arrayed in all the finest lace,
she sways a bit with upturned face
atop her verdant throne.
Unattended, all alone,
her courtiers have gone away.
The rain begins, the bees have gone,
returned now to their cells.
The magpie calls us from the tree.
And will you walk with me,
my child, as the mist around us swells,
to watch the drops on flower bells,
from which sweet nectar’s drawn?
A chill sweeps through, a haunting song,
but we are bundled tight;
our jackets slick, our collars high,
they’ll keep us safe and dry.
The day’s awash in fading light,
and tho summer’s tilt delays the night,
we must not tarry long.
god america i 