WRIT BY ANOTHER HAND

by Kirsten Mckenzie (New Zealand)

His sleep eternal,

Our gracious English Bard.

We beg death a lie,

Bemoan his passing a timeless tragedy.

A ripe apple, decaying, leaving us desolate.

Oh, sweet melancholy, his unwavering words now perform,

His fulsome labour wrapped in a cloak of divinity.

Scholars feast upon his utterances, devoted servants, their love pure,

Still, we beseech the delivery of more dogged investigations.

Reason flees as time falls, and Marlowe grows,

A usurper from his pages begs consideration.

How can we perceive truth’s history?

Was it writ by Shakespeare,

Or by another hand?

Their sleep eternal.