The Queen has passed the dream baton on.
It’s no longer the Queen offering one
tea on a tartan rug, herself strangely supple,
knees to the side. Or the Queen, her handbag
laid faintly gruff beside her, on the passenger
seat of the camper van, burrowing into France.
I suppose she’s not the archetype she was.
It’s Putin one now hangs out with
in a Bucharest café, with talk of
going on to a club he knows.
And in this role, and pale windcheater,
he’s surprisingly - affable, gets almost
personal, almost raises his eyes -
good value and unthreatening, I have found.