“King Richard III is Found!”
The word unleashed: the council chamber’s packed.
The archaeologist: meticulous.
Their analytic brush thus set aside,
news eagerly awaited. Now, with pride.
all hear results of Leicester’s history:
“It seems we’ve dug down deep enough to find
old Herrick’s garden near the Friary
‘where all the virgins must make much of time’.
We’ve dug on past King Henry’s century
who’d rid church edicts should he disagree.”
“He’s here! He’s found beneath an old car lot;
a left and thorny leg lies near his tomb.
King Richard with his relics in the ground;
his scoliosis near his skull, intact
with battle scars remaining on that dome.
He’s bootless! Sigh! We see his bony toes
that once did lie in death near Bosworth Field.”
Thus news that Richard Third is found, abounds!
There’s movement in the shadows, sinister,
his monster moan now silent mid his bones.
Mid Tower floats young voices of the night.
As leaded lid now creaks from wind so slight.
There’s sorrow in the dead king’s pillaged plight.
They’ve verified via DNA that it is, indeed, Richard the Third! Plans are to inter the King in Leicester Cathedral in 2014 though there is an ongoing kerfuffle as to his final resting place. The young voices referenced in my poem, Edward V of England and Richard of Shrewsbury, Duke of York, ages 12 and 9, were lodged in the Tower of London in preparation for Edward’s coronation as king. When Richard took the throne for himself, the boys mysteriously disappeared.