The Death Of Kings

Old Duncan was killed in battle, Bill Not in the dramatic cushion of a horrible Night's unfitful sleep The Porter screaming in alarum No, Macbeth not quite so cold In the real glare of gone yesterday But, oh, you gave him blood The sludge of ambition catching In his veins And great conjecture to finger his wife Old Gruoch Lost like a ripped-out page Of history These things we see now in our minds Immortal The truth long hidden in shades unworthy To take the pen of poets Who glean ‘neath the covers this daily bed The radiant sun of morrow. ~ Laurence Overmire (Previously published in The Ghost of Rabbie Burns: An American Poet's Journey Through Scotland, Indelible Mark Publishing,2016)