In Her Dearly Departed Footsteps Poem by Mark Heathcote

Suffused in farewell mists by the river Dee,
the Queen has ventured out to walk the snowfields
alone, far beyond Balmoral Castle one last time,
one last morra, and there shortly after the next
she'll-depart-these her well-loved Scottish glens
like so many a rare red bushy-tailed squirrel.
And the world that she cheered and warmed
many centuries hence shall be hushed - hushed
into a shocked silence, petrified as she leaves
the stone steps of her throne, sullen and icy cold.

As her footsteps, leave-us-all, solemnly-behind
we see the rabble and the gentry huntsman bowing
their-lowly-heads in kind. Our noble Queen
has trodden a path that has never frozen,
wavered or forked her pristine footprints
never stumbled, never soiled stained-the-ground
they a tightrope walked. They melt away still pristine
from-us-now one and all. As tears like suspended-
tiaras earnestly heartfelt fall. Her hounds are
heard-baying - howling frantically in the grand hall.

Now her walking cane isn't needed anymore
Now that the mantle of her crown
courts another-rightful son and heir.

Now she waves goodbye with a regal wave of
her royal hand. And all her subject's remarks
she-ruled-our-land with grace and dignity
that no other could likewise command.
Your Majesty, we loved you dearly and would all
take an oath on the stand and there proclaim
she loved all her people, all her subjects
in equal proportions, living in however many distant lands.
God, Save the Queen and God-guides-all-of-mankind,
humankind in her dearly departed footsteps.