The Green King

The green king is dead.
The wind sweeps new golden leaves down my lane.

The wind rolls the skies in grey and weepy gloom

While I sit inside this room and ponder what to do.

While I sit inside this room and ponder what to do,
The dog dreams of hunts in golden fields,

Her paws claw the air, her eyes search behind closed lids

For prey that lurks in canine fantasy -

Her time will come - I think.

Her dreams make her blink, and sometimes she will growl or purr,

At things that are outside my world.

The king is dead; long live the golden king.