Elizabeth

The ghost of Ann Boleyn whistling-echoing the hangman's swing, waiting for a child that will not be born. The proles inertia sings it's spirit ready to be grown to exact a score with a Tudor thorn. A virgin's womb spawns historical theories, bishops warm a paradigm in a barren sovereign crucible. Elizabeth was summoned to a calm tower, not yet wound-mummified in history's tapestry, never to be a bride she would marry the sounds of Spanish galleys shivering with English fire and the crawling traffic of tears on a candle, her reign will avoid history's reflexive cull.