The cliffs of Elsinore, at dawn. The clouds
Lour low about the castle’s jagged walls.
The play is over, all the dead who choked
In weltered blood no longer clog the halls.
The final battle’s done, young Fortinbras
Old Claudius together met, and died.
Laertes will be crowned this afternoon
As oft his rue-crowned sister prophesied.
But not all folk rejoice in this cold dawn.
Horatio comes forth to greet the skies
Whose tears shed doubts upon philosophy
Nor ghosts nor friends may longer walk nor warn
Looks south, to England, where drowned Hamlet lies
And casts cold violets to the gull-swirled sea.
(For Sonya Taafe) 10th October 2009