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

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