(i)

 

Maybe it was just too close to the river.

But like a high Thames tide, the swell

of history swept Richmond Palace away.

 

First it was a shining royal manor, known

as Shene, before receiving star treatment.

Its queens: Isabella, Margaret of Anjou,

Anne of Bohemia. Fire came one Christmas;

Tudor king Henry and his family

had to flee for their lives.

 

A new palace rose from timber ashes:

large, grand, brick and white stone,

long galleries, courtyards, a library.

Henry the Seventh and Elizabeth the First

slept and died there. Its fate was sealed

with the execution of a king.

 

No more need for palaces.

Torn down, brick by brick.

By the time the son was restored

to the throne just the gatehouse

remained. If only English Heritage

had been on the scene back then.   

 

(ii))

 

In place of the palace, a Georgian estate,

original and imitation, blinds drawn,

discreet. No requirement to trumpet

Richmond’s wealth beneath the roar

of the flight path. Meanwhile

the nearby Thames haunts these houses.

Will its waters rise one day, to reach out

and overwhelm this entitled enclave?

The warning signs are there.