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Italian square-topped towers rise above
the trees – incongruous towers in their day,
no doubt, when phoney mediaeval homes
were rife – but Cubitt built as bidden by
his Prince, and looking at his work we find
it good.
Now seen at two miles’ range, they dominate
an undisclosed demesne where, every ounce
a woman, every inch a queen, Victoria
once sublimised her consort’s worth, and there
enshrined his memory in grief –
there knew Punjabi loyalty and zeal –
with tolerance indulged uncouthness in
a Scot –
from there, by giving daughters’ hands, contrived
to sow the Coburg seed in Europe’s courts –
manipulated foreign politics with family
ties, furthering her country’s weal –
from Osborne saw an empire reach
its eminence – unique, predominant,
but, like its predecessors, doomed.

 

From The Hounds of Cridmore and Other Isle of Wight Poems, a book of Mr Hudson’s poetry with many illustrations by Heather Cobb.

 

T. C. Hudson

© T. C. Hudson.
This work may not be reproduced without prior permission of the author.

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