Elizabeth: a poem to mark the death of the Queen

It has been, and continues to be, a strange time. For many adults – myself included – and for every child in the UK, she was the only monarch we’d ever known, and whether royalist or republican, she’d seemed fixed, a constant. I hope that this poem might provoke discussion in class, and teachers should feel free to use it. I hope I’ve struck a balance that errs on the side of respect, without mawkish sentimentality, and that modern children might feel a connection with her, despite very different lives, and of course their own concerns.

Elizabeth

 I never met the Queen, although

I’d think of her each day –

Starting out at breakfast

With our favourite: Special K.

We both loved dogs and horses,

so we’d that in common too,

and in the week, I’d walk to school

down Monarch Avenue.

We painted her in art last term –

the Platinum Jubilee –

and all her portraits smiled out

from the wall in class 4B.

In fact, her face is everywhere,

on stamps to send a card –

I bet King Charles gets lots of them;

I bet he’ll find it hard.

One time, Miss brought old money in –

we dropped coins in a cup

of vinegar and salt and stuff,

to try to clean them up.

I got a really grimy one –

the date too dark to see,

but underneath the Queen was young

in nineteen fifty-three.

She wore a simple wreath of leaves,

not heavy jewelled crown,

and gazed right to her future,

as if nothing weighed her down.

Look Lizzy, said Miss Perkins

Your namesake, as you know –

I guess that she was my age then,

but that was long ago.

I dried it off, and polished it

(Well – rubbed it on my arm)

and she still lives in my pocket

as my secret lucky charm.

© Sarah Ziman 2022