The Holyrood Garden party

The Holyrood Garden Party

They wait,

In the undiscriminating queue,

Each clutching 

A sovereign's invitation,

On a white embossed 

And weighty card,

That has, that very morning, 

Been ceremoniously removed

From its honoured place,

To call them here,

The uncomfortably suited,

And the morning suited,

The unfascinating fascinators,

The wide brims and the pillboxes,

The high street combinations

The designer labels,

The Highland dress 

And Buddhist robes,

The clashing of the colours,

The tightness of the shoes,

The privileged by birth,

And those who work the earth,

The provost and the cook,

The postman and the duke,

Each offers up their name,

And passes through

The watchful royal gates,

To walk, gratefully, 

For a single afternoon,

Upon forbidden 

Grass.