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Next Issue Peter Scupham at 85: a celebration Contributions by Anne Stevenson, Robert Wells, Peter Davidson, Lawrence Sail

This poem is taken from PN Review 32, Volume 9 Number 6, July - August 1983.

Queen Cruach John Heath-Stubbs

The Queen, my lord, is dead.

They say I walked last night (anxieties,
Our enemies mustering like a moving wood,
Rob me of healing sleep) it must have been
The castle galleries, but in my dream
I tred a long rock-passage, winding down
Into a central cave. And there a light gleamed,
A cauldron boiled and bubbled. A woman
(Was she our Saint Bride?-but there were three,
A triple goddess, triune guardian of wyrd)
Leaned over it, stirring. The cauldron seethed
With broth and oatmeal, venison,
Black game, red grouse, hare and leveret,
Pork and bacon, kale-each finds
That which his palate savours best,
Nor will it ever boil a coward's meat.
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