The link to today's poem is a bit tenuous, but it's the best I can do in the circumstances; (don't ask).
I wrote it as part of the Visitors In Verse project about famous guests who have stayed at Blackpool's beautiful Imperial Hotel. It references a visit to the town and the hotel by the Queen Mother in the mid 1950s and a rather unfortunate glitch in the functioning of the hotel's lift. I hope you enjoy it.
Royal Descent
Another world war hardly won, an empire crumbling in the sun, the King is dead, long live the Queen; a new Elizabethan age begun, a step down for her gracious mom.
While winds of change touch foreign shores, on Blackpool’s strand in face of time and tide, we loyal subjects still enjoy our ices and our donkey-rides or thrill upon the Pleasure Beach, tomorrow safely out of reach.
The dowager Queen ventures forth to this bright jewel of the north and it augurs well for the Imperial Hydropathic Hotel that Her Majesty, escorted up by Mr White, will repose stately for the night in its famous Royal Suite, freshly decked in honor of her stay.
Only, progress is delayed much to the Manager’s dismay when his lift grinds to untimely halt between the floors. After a brief but furious flurry of activity, malfunction remedied, and with his profuse apologies, Her Majesty continues on to bed.
At the appointed hour the following day Jack White attends his special guest. As she emerges from her rest, this last Empress of India and ‘most dangerous woman in Europe’, mindful of the previous evening’s slight delay, advises him demurely with a smile: “I think I’ll walk down, Mr White.” He bows, acceding to her royal wish and stealthy feels his neck, hardly daring to reflect on the price he might have paid in a less forgiving age for a grain of Blackpool sand in the machine. Thanks for reading. Have a good week. S :-) Email ThisBlogThis!Share to TwitterShare to Facebook
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