Second Last Sunday in June (up at the Castle)
Above them all he sat,
A special part of the group, but at the same time
Completely separate, standing out.
They were his, he was theirs.
He could, literally, make them sing to his tune
As he sat up high
On his very own seat
And played the music he enjoyed so much
Because he knew they loved it too.
He was at once both king and minstrel.
He looked down over them and the island,
His people and his island,
From his high seat.
They, comfortable together as one audience,
Looked up to him and
They saw him as their entertainer,
And he entertained with majesty.
All smiled. All sang. All were enraptured,
Under his spell just as he was under theirs.
All doubts, all fears, all cares
Were melted by the June sun
And carried away on the soft sweet summer’s sea breeze.
And then he sang too, from up on
His little perch, his piece of rock, his high throne.
He gave them words, and they gave him back a chorus.
They were united by the music, the magic,
As the breeze glided along the un-cut grass
And the sun gilded the sea, the rocks, the sand.
Then above them all he stood,
Dressed in black and framed by a perfect blue sky,
And, still playing, he climbed down
From the cold castle to be with them,
All together on that warm Sunday,
All together on their hill.
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