March stands on the precipice of life and dislikes the view.

The infant King, fawned over, lauded, feted and feared in equal measure,

the tyrant teenage regal monster and the early despot in waiting

rages. His senses coloured, polarised by anger, unhappiness and sorrow,

understands only too well that for all his blustering fury, this is not

what he was meant to be to the people in his shadow.

The blackness of the sky, the rage and fury, the odd measure of calm

in another wise incensed frenzy in which ships shiver in still icy waters ,