In what seemed high above the clouds to the mortals below,

their daily grind and purpose-led lives and their enriched

and awkward filled lies, in once where Mad King March

in a fit of male ego led temper threw his army to the wind, scattered

and shown no mercy, punished and raged as the wind tossed

with ever greater stakes as control

was sought for peace of mind,

now stands, in serenity and cast iron beauty

the queen of all, for  none is fairer or bountiful

than Thrimilchi, to her allies Wonnemaand and to her lovers

she allows with flirtation to be called May.

 

Queen May,

the tales of her beauty stretch far beyond her Northern realm,

she more than makes up in a solitary moment

of idle time the damage she wrought as Solmanath the short

and the laziness which encumbers her movements as she allows

the sun to drain her thought as the plants were flowering

into her eighth period alive. Queen May, for really are we

not her lover, man, women and beast alike, from suckling child

to suckling pig, are we all not in her thrall, feels the first stirring of the growth

inside of her, the following year plays heavy on her mind

but outwardly she dances as a drop of water

caught in slow motion dances on a leaf’s tongue,

slowly, provocatively and with several meanings

to be adored in each small step.

 

Tales of her beauty spread far beyond her shores,

past the cliffs of white gold, through the lands

where different gods do lay claim and on to the bitterness

that rages in the South wind’s heart, envy beating with a destruction

that was only matched by Mad King March in his absolute

pomp as he bit down hard on all who crossed him.

 

The South Wind envied May for her guile, her stately trappings

of state and the affection she was held in the realm past

the white cliffs of gold. Angered by her beauty he did

everything possible to take her down and smother her,

to lose her reputation as fairest of all.

Each time he forgot, as he must,

that May was not only beautiful

but she hid a cruel streak that she inherited from her three former

lives, Janus, Solmanath and Mad King March,

the temper of a hundred days that had raged and declared war.

May was not just beautiful, she could be angry,

her lovers could attest on holy scripture as they

whimpered in dedication to her name, that she was frigid

when needed, displaying brutality, the feminine spite,

the malice of a once formed man and the ruthlessness

of a woman with the faint stirrings of life in her rounding belly.

 

South Wind, bluster, brash, pig headed, pig footed, a liar and a cheat,

who drove whispers into the ears of Gods and snarled

with piteous envy and sneak filled jealousy at any one,

Gods, man or beast who dared get in the way of all he desired,

met his match in Queen May, lover to us all, but to the wind

not even Wonnemaand could he call.

 

May, oh reign over us forever but be bountiful and free,

let the youth of April, guide you into June for then

the dark knights shall start to return and that is a time of true pity

for the people of the North,

for they herald the turning of the tide

and May’s lost red hair, Elizabeth like,

and the rage of gentle being lost for another year.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015.