The car parked marked with an R, as if your spirit had hovered for half a millenium to mark the deconsecrated spot. A few inches either side and you may have been lost forever, though there was little chance of that, so precisely did you engage with the living, the aggrieved who wished to dig up your true reputation with those poignant bones. The sight of that curved spine, it touched our hearts, wincing at the thought of you holding a sword and swinging it, yet swing it you did to save your country, your soul. The wounds so clear, graphically revealed the ignominy of your passing, the blood lust and hate of those thrusting at the legally occupied throne. History is just a story, after all, to which most of us consent, but I think of you often, Richard, the bloody white rose cut too soon on a dark August day.
copyright Francis Barker 2020