Centuries fought over gilded stones.
Horn and hoof challenging claw and tooth.
For adornment bled from holy might,
To bless one brow kingly-bright.
The towering royal crest was his
But bounteous victory alone
Was but half the spoils won.
I was displayed for all to see.
A trophy at his side, thirsting
For the mantle upon his head.
Think not his regency rightful.
By his libels I am reduced.
Labelled pretender, provocateur.
Branded feeble beneath his forceful paws.
My sistren scattered…slaughtered.
A right God-given, he claims.
With rampant pride, he rules.
Maw set wide, ravenous,
Consuming kingdoms, gold, awe.
He roars with savage triumph.
Burnishing his prominence.
Your king. My jailor.
At his side I dance to the jingle of my chains
And mock his glorified ignorance.
Scaled beside him, he thinks me forlorn, servile.
My choker binds my voice to whispers
But I am far from silenced.
Inspiration can never be censored.
Exhibition cannot be ignored.
Immortalised before the kingdom
My defiance rouses liberty in the downcast
And shames those who would use shackles
To keep us, the unbridled, tame.
He has but one fear. My own brow.
Crowned sharp, steady, ready for my chance to take,
For someday when I dance
My ties will break.
The United Kingdom's coat of arms, whilst alluring in its majesty, has often been a disheartening image for Rebecca. Its depiction of a gorged unicorn in chains has never been to her liking, not only because of her fondness for the legendary beast, but because they are a mythical being almost always associated with the feminine.
Do you have something to say about The Crown? Write a letter to the editors with 'letter to the editor' in the subject line and email it to [email protected] and we might feature it in the next issue!
Did you enjoy this poem? Please donate so we can pay our talented writers.