Red and restitute like the almighty, we, young folk, are destined to travel eternally on a voyage to a better dawn.  We have fought and traversed nothing that could ever hold us back, nor did we collapse when the air blew the wind out of the sails.  But righteous of course… and we want to begin to take you on some merry whispers… so if you’d rather not intervene, I’d be most grateful.    

 

Yes, yes, there are those that strong and there are those that are weak, but the bravest of you are those that will try… and impossible it is to recompense for the almighty sacrifice, such as that of Anne Boleyn’s.  Do not continue this tale, young sir, if you are glib about pain, suffering and animals’ suffering, such as many beneath you in these past few generations…and we will do our utmost to protect and lessen their pain.  For you… what I will say is a sturdy business position, well protected in an urban office park… and you do as you always dreamed… collectively helping to bring in a better tomorrow.  So there you go!  Cum Claus… unravel the text if you please!  

 

 

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The year was 1517 and the summer was already midway through.  The long stalks of meadows frittered across the undulating hills.  North and south, sloping climbs dwindled the energy of a few, cumbersome hares, who scurried along the long grass.  To those benighted, amongst the riotous park life, the heat of the sun and pollen swarmed across the abyss like a hardy landscape it still was.  

 

Yet frolicking within the hay, was a surreptitious young girl, who climbed up the looming hill with a sprightly saunter.  She was picking dandelions and dressed them across her hair in the summer heat.  Sporting a linen gown, she clambered through the tall shoots of the meadows, gently whispering casual melodies… escaping as they were into the bright, blue sky.  The long approach of Hever castle arrived in front of her, awakened like a looming dragon.  She sauntered towards the side door, intruding gently and quietly, before appearing at the foot of the great banquet hall.   

 

There, in front of her was the haunting spectre of her house maid, who was stood vigorously proofing bread like an archaic Egyptian.  The room was expansive, and the tall walls rose into a towering ceiling, befitting the castle it was.  She slammed the bread to the side and looked at the young girl capriciously.  “Where have you been, my young Lady?  She blurted loudly.  “It is almost dinner time,”  She fretted around with the bread on the table.  “And you best be ready to dine with  your mother and father this evening!”  The house maid sauntered back and forth from behind the table.  “They won’t be happy if young Anne is not present at the dining table!”  

 

Anne instantly burst into a plea for forgiveness.  “I was collecting dandelions, you see,” She uttered quietly.  “Out when I was on the meadows.”  She paused and looked up at the house maid.  “I want to build a necklace, just made out of dandelions.”  

 

The house maid looked at Anne sympathetically and gave a soft smile.  “That’s all very well,” she uttered kindly.  “But it won’t best please your mother and father, I’m afraid to say.”  

 

“In the middle of summer??”  Replied Anne exuberantly.  “We’ve had so much fun in the garden as well!”  She turned and peered out of the window.  “It’s like the beautiful garden of Eden!”  

 

“Alright, alright,” conceded the house maid gently.  “But best you be ready to eat within the hour.”  

 

Later that evening, Anne and her sister, Mary, along with their younger brother, Henry, dined alongside their mother and father in the great banquet hall.  It was a subdued formality seething with quiet whispers and ample with pretence.  Anne, being 16 in age, was the eldest of the children, while Mary was two years younger and their brother at the age of around 10.  They delicately ate through a portion of venison as their father, Thomas, instilled his learned wisdom upon them all.  

 

“Keep you arms off the table,” he muttered forcefully.  “And know the correct decorum by which you should behave!”  He turned to Mary and Anne fiercely.  “It is not becoming of a Lady to eat so distastefully as you young commoners are doing.”  He seemed to cough on his wine and spoke some more words.  “It is the occupation of a Lady to shine with elegance.  Not as much,” he continued.  “To seem like common pigs!” 

 

Later that night, a dream swarmed over the young princess.  Trudging across a muddy field, she lit up the lights of the serpent dwellers, igniting happiness into their early radio devices.  Broach a new sphere here, broach a new sphere there… but what kind folks do we not want to know other than the salacious material?? That all four of the eldest ejaculated that night… Anne imagining a sordid beach party in the summer heat, plentiful with Saxons, imbued with glossy skin, rich with sweaty passions!  Now, onwards with the tale!  

 

You see they all lived in Hever Castle.  That destitute wreck was a medieval stunner, akin to a looking glass from 2nd Century Rome.  But here is the crux of the matter.  They all unfortunately had sanitary utensils like my left bottom and soaked in sweat and dried excrement.  The best thing really was to dive into a lake.  But alas, none of the sexy females could trim body hair like today… yes, yes, but Anne would dabble with a knife while in a filthy yet luxurious bath tub.  Introduce yourself, sure, but you have a deadline to complete this story by next Sunday, acquainted fortunately with a couple of your classic paragraphs from me each day, forming the delicious, delicate and studious golf tournament!  Chin!  Chin!  

 

 

 

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Sir Thomas Wyatt was an up-and-coming young poet.  He dabbled, in his young age, with trapezing romantic themes and free thinking emotions that culminated in his introduction of the sonnet into English Literature.  Two years the younger of Anne, he stared out of the windows of his soul with a shimmering glory and polished the disgrace of subservience to the kingdom with exuberant lust.  

 

His family being originally from Yorkshire, he was born at Allington Castle near Maidstone in Kent.  His father, Henry Wyatt, had been a Privy Councillor of Henry VII and remained a trusted advisor to Henry VIII when he assumed the throne in 1509.  Safety, power and security, it seemed, allowed Sir Thomas Wyatt to seclude himself to the passionate pleasantry of poetry.  Yet do not mistake his undying connections with those who caught a whiff of his amour.  

 

And here we find ourselves, in 1520.  Wyatt was at the youthful age of 17, and Anne 19.  It was on this occasion that we find here the most peculiar of events, where Thomas Boleyn was entertaining guests at Hever Castle, sporting in a bout of hunting as they were, and feasting on a spit-roasted hog as the summer dwindled away.  

 

The retinue arrived at the foot of Hever Castle, dismounting their horses before offering the arriving hosts all kinds of thanksgivings.  Thomas Boleyn struck each with a warm handshake and gestured over to the trimmed lawn where a hog was roasting on a fire.  And so the congregation emerged down towards the precipice.  Hearty and cordial musings bellowed out of their effervescent chests as each bastion took cups from the krater of wine.  Back and fro they reached for pieces of meat, merrily drinking the red wine like the revelry of ages since past been.  

 

Roughly two hours later, Anne had ventured down to the vegetable garden accompanied with a cup-let of wine.  She strolled casually in a linen dress, merry with the gentle drunkeness that was lingering inside her.  Picking up gently rose petals from the nearby rose garden, her eternal solitude inside her was met by what seemed to be an immediate, sudden cacophony.  

 

“You come to look at the rose petals… and I at you,” cried a gentleman’s voice.  “It seems we find beauty in every form,” he murmured further surreptitiously.  He paced closer towards her and pronounced his words like a wandering werewolf.  “You know it’s funny,” he gesticulated intriguingly.  “They say there is love of the highest, middle and lowest of equations.”  He paused and looked at her adoringly.  “But it is as if I can feel love further abound.”  He turned and gazed at her with a smile.  “Higher than every star in the sky!”  

 

“I suppose if there was a god out there, he would see the difference between a bodily l form of love or the love of the soul,”  murmured Anne in reply as she picked up a rose petal.  She guarded her ardent femininity like the thorns she was holding.  “Because the love of the soul is eternal and imperishable… like an endless butterfly if you will, floating off into the abyss!”  

 

Wyatt seemed to pause dreamily at the spectacle of the occasion, before he picked up a rose petal for himself and tossed it onto the flower bed.  “But what know you of casting aside prestige or rank and enveloping your soul into waves unknown?”  He announced daintily.  “The ties of family bleed like a serpent upon this kingdom.”  He paused and felt disgruntled within himself.  “How can you set yourself free… nay how can we emancipate ourselves destined to the chains of marriage when all it serves is the gratitude of our fathers?”  

 

Anne stared upwards at the looming linen coat of the suitor and gazed across at the curls of his hair.  “There is nothing to hold me back!”  She cried at last.  “The dark walls of this castle and its feather browed ancestry are nothing but a slight upon my pathology.”  She gazed back towards the gate to the rose garden and began to leave.  

 

“But…” cried Wyatt desperately.  “Take at least a token from me to you… besmitten as you are as the priestess of the muses… and accept this locket I have before me in my pocket.”  Anne reached over and grasped it in her hand before she departed away back towards the castle.  

 

 

 

 

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On the 4th March 1522, Anne made her first appearance at the English royal court.  The event took place at the Chateau Vert (Green Castle) pageant in honour of the imperial ambassadors, in which Anne played the character “Perseverance”.  In front of the courtly audience, the dancers wore gowns of white satin and embroidered with gold thread and performed resplendently.  Inspiring awe in the beholders and noted as one of the most stylish and accomplished women present,  Anne soon attracted a crowd courtiers competing for her at the royal court.  

 

But let us speak of the down-and-outers who shrugged aside the deathly contest that could ensue, wretched like a forlorn and daggered pride of lions.  Homo-erotic if you don’t say.  For what is it that we must submit to, chained by this brain-numbed psychology of victory.  Nay…no one can be turned asunder when they’re sat down staring at a wine cuplet.   

 

So let us return to the story of Sir Thomas Wyatt, who had ventured once more to Hever Castle, on good terms thankfully with young George Boleyn and others of the family.  There, he frolicked across the garden etching thoughts onto his notepad in blank ink and taking the beauty of the summer into his own imagination.  He paced over to a hammock tied between two trees and let his mind unwhirl.  

 

Riches, riches, that is exactly what he thought about, and, although not paralysed with weakness via the tongue, he suggested a soliloquy to himself.  Pants.. fucking pants… he wanted to rip off Anne’s clothing and seduce her private parts, delicate and virile as the esquire he was.  But now let’s take this to the nebula.  No one is gonna visit Earth unless he searches for the literature to seduce the future moon hoppers, he thought to himself.  There are in fact 32 Earth’s all exactly the same I’m afraid, well in fact there are 2,000… goodbye!  Goodbye!   

 

Now we’re in the present.  Everyone is jetting two trillion miles away, lighting up eternity to wrestle it into the very cup-lets they drink.  Soaring beyond your imagination, you will saunter on board, next to women, fretting like crazy, and an uncircumpsect traveller considering the sponge of the brain you have.  Now take that one away and dink it in the basketball net… yours truly… yours truly… ahaha… well I suppose it’s just like you serving up an ace at tennis.  Free-loaders… free-loaders the lot of you!  

 

There were a few women, circling around the space in his brain, nonchalantly munching the neurones that produced this text, just as if the green scene around him subverted into the criminal dens of opium.   But the very fuel was just akin to his long-lost acquaintance, the one he had so solemnly sought to seduce and could think of nothing less!

 

So he pontificated into the air.  Swinging like the bats in the dark, the wind of summer would hold him aloft till he seduced the Lady Anne, he thought to himself.  Pollen, swooping across the meadows were the mere oars of him aboard his rowing boat… the rowing boat of love… that would park beneath Anne’s sheath and hold that motherfuck for the good foreseeable future.  Entertainments… poetry… the theatres of the muses were destined to fall upon his shoulders like a parrot aboard the pirates of Atlantis!  

 

And so he was mesmerised by the passion he felt inside, and began to float into the sky.  Launching further and further were the catapults ayonder, as he cataclyded above the temples of infinity, staunchly committed to his dream to be invincible.  He towered above the might of the weights holding him down, like some untouched superman blazing a trail for all brethren of the future.  

 

And there he came to a halt.  He wrote down his lyrics and passed them gently to the neighbouring Anne, besmitten as he was through his body and whole! 

 

 

 

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Yet much of his professing amor soon became a closely guarded indictment. Trees, gazing across in a spread of their awnings, whistling like willow trees and shading the summer heat from his chiselled writing pad, only shone allure on the location with more merriment.  A swooping robin, dancing across the well-trimmed grass spoke one word there, and a group of ducks flocking across the lake another word there.  You see he was a form of entroping mathematician who classed no one else above him, but rather relied upon the bodily sponges of his long-lost proverbs.

 

And he was lost and moribund in his literary indictments.  He stretched up to the shadows avert to his wretched cause, benighted in the Synesthesia they cast around him, hopelessly guiding himself to a bankrupted whirlpool.  But higher he climbed and higher he floated in the air!  The radiation of the wind turned him naked… fertile in the brain but shoved aside, cast out of their very rose garden he had wanked over.  He regurgitated his juices to himself some more… the bark of the tree… appearing red with the blood of that wretched strife they all worshipped…  the blood of the nebulaic entropy!  

There, floundering in the feathers of this tilted nib, he submerged himself in the lake in front of him.  The assertive ease of his merry poetry had arrived at the precipice, soaked as they were with the vernal chaplets of the procession.  He felt the reverberating ejaculation of the mid summer heat pound against his corpus, relaxing at last in the water as he was against his back.  New hope… and new proverbs would surely come to him, he thought, eventually like the returning crops.

 

For he had a cause.  And that was to soothe the nurturing rabbits from being turned asunder.  He was the parochial, returning shepherd, who guided the fallen back to the garden of Eden.  He was an Athenian observant, who obstructed the storms coming and struck down Zeus from above.  And restitute and ready he was.  The submerging cataclysm blocking the rivers of his heart looked away from the plight besmirching the defeat he must avoid.  And, as such, he promptly climbed out of the lake and waited for Lady Anne.  

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A year later, following reports injurious to her reputation, which publicly circulated, Anne Boleyn was sent away from court to her family’s estates in Hever by Henry VIII.  Currently, at this point in 1528, Henry VIII was infatuated by Anne, and the chief bishops of England are trying to negotiate a divorce between Henry VIII and Queen Katherine with the papal legates.  During Anne’s time at the royal court, Anne and the King had been ardent lovers since roughly 1525.  

 

However, now returned at Hever Castle, Anne and Henry VIII would communicate with each other via letters.  Surreptitiously and eagerly aiming for the throne, Anne had evolved into a seeming Persian sea urchin who now aimed to beguile the King into divorcing Katherine and making her Queen.  Her wisdom and eloquence developing in leaps and bounds, she became the audacious dominatrix, who aimed to subdue the King with her beauty.  

 

And so Anne and the King continued their relationship even after Anne had been banished from court, now instead via a letters that were sent from Hever and London and back and forth.  Anne was accustomed to scan through Henry’s letters with an ardent desire now to be made Queen, and, in reply, utilise her seductive intelligence as much as she could. 

 

But for Wyatt, it was a different conundrum.  It blazoned across the steel armoury of his soul, like a newfound cataclysm of stars.  Where was Anne’s locket to him?  Where was her silk, linen jacket… where was the inseparable talents of her soul?  Look aloft or look asunder, the merry clouds above only breathed life into his individual soul and told him that the ides of March were looming close to both of their bight and merry necks.    

 

The merriment of a daffodil immediately glared in front of him.  It was like a space ship launching off into the abyss.  He turned and looked at the castle in front of him like a sheer bastion of bastions.  Tokens, tokens, yes tokens were virulently falling down from the sky.  But let them turn asunder?  Let the emprisoning kingdom of this realm beguile the Muses of Rome?  It was not the kind of man he was.  And it sunk deep in his across his thigh like an arrow from God.  It felt wretched like a destitute memory of former glory.  

 

But aloft he was and soon Anne was awaiting his arrival at Hever Castle, having spent the last six months at the residence, endlessly dreaming of her die hard ambition.  She was pruning the thistles of the rose garden, when at last the surreptitious Wyatt appeared before her in the midst of the brick-walled garden. 

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“Look you no further to the King than a scoundrel in the shadows!”  Cried Wyatt vociferously.  “Tie your heart with ribbons, but do not subject yourself the toils of others!”  He paced across the stone pathway behind her.  “A deluge of their sneers will befall from them… left at the mercy of the court you will be… and rather unalike a simple office clerk as you find this narrator!”  

 

Anne turned around passionately and stared at him with a guise far higher than his frivolous words.  “But they haven’t,”  she uttered at last.  “They haven't secured a divorce between the King and Katherine!”  She turned around, scraping her dress across the ground. “They’re useless scoundrels abiding only to that archaic Rome.”  She kicked a stone with her foot and looked at Wyatt as he seemed dejected beside a rose.  “What if the King were to learn that he is the head of the church.”  She spat her words.  “And not some delinquent always pandering to Rome.”  She paced forward vigorously and glared at Wyatt viciously.  “And then I will be made Queen!”  She turned around and laughed to herself.  “And all this family will be rich!”  

 

“Politics, politics, politics!”  Spat Wyatt in reply.  “What I’m talking about is marriage not for place or position, royalty or commoner, rich or poor.  He strolled over and grasped Anne’s hands.  “But a marriage for love!”  He smiled down at her face.  “You can go on… pressing towards your ambition like some sordid puppet show.”  He gazed to side before looking down at her eyes.  “Or you could marry for love.”  He smiled and looked at her adoringly.  “And I could be that person!  You could marry me!”  

 

Yet, as soon as he had spoken his words, a young servant appeared at the foot of the rose garden, having been instructed to find the Lady Anne. “Anne!  Anne!”  He uttered loudly.  “You must make haste and return to London!  We have orders to take you back to the royal court!  Come now!  Come now!  We must make haste!”  

 

Anne stared back at her lover and tossed aside a rose petal into the flower bed.  “It seems I have to go,” she uttered at last.  She stumbled and smiled as Wyatt seemed eternally lost and deflated.  “It was nice to meet you at least,” she mumbled softly.  “And I hope you live long and prosperously!”  And with that Anne darted out of the rose garden towards the castle ready to get her carriage onwards to London!

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Years into the future there was a particular philosophy among the meadows of France. Peculiar and romantic though it was, the French poet, Beaudelaire,  imagined portals into different worlds evoked in the image of simple haystacks across the grass. Riddled with mysticism, as he painted the haystacks, he could perceive them as portals into heaven.  

 

And that is what happened to Wyatt that fresh summer’s afternoon.  Neither rich nor poor, neither stupid nor intelligent, he reckoned with the waves of infinity like the undying space troopers ayonder.  Steadying himself above a platform he climbed high, ready to take the plunge.  A young beaver pounced out of an imaginary river, fervently collecting twigs before returning to his den to snuggle with his partner.  A suckling breeze of leaves blew into a Russian Anastatia figure above in the sky, while the ecstasy surrounded them invited Zeus Almighty to partake in the dance unfolding below him.  He was rich with infinity, the prevailer of passion and the very creator of emotions.  It was his dawn - in front of him - his dawn to control the forces of the cosmos!!!!  

 

And so he mounted one of the horses and swept away in pursuit of the Lady Anne.  Roaring like the mountains he charged, gliding like an ocean bear.  Time seemed to stand still and he galloped along like a male purveyor of Persephone’s trinket to Queen Venus of heaven.  Dark though it was, he was emerging out of Plato’s cave, blessed with white garments leading him ayonder.  The rising climb above into Mount Olympus only grew more into his destiny and he charged forward with all his might!  

 

Following the much trodden-on causeway that one of the squires had informed Wyatt Anne most probably would have taken, he galloped along like a die hard peasant. The throbbing heart beat of the horse beneath him consumed his peering gaze at the landscape beside him, hell-bent as he was on reaching his young maiden.  

 

And there at last he made it.  Turning round a corner, he could observe the bludgeoning carriage in front of him.  And with it, he gasped in hope, the Lady Anne as well!  So he rode forward and reached its withered carousel.   There he emerged and announced his ardent passion.  “The King is going to kill you one day!”  He cried at the top of his lungs.  “He will force you to have children and then execute you after miscarriages that will befall you!  

 

“Nonsense!  Nonsense!”  Bludgeoned Anne in reply.  “He is a gentle type of bloke when you know him well enough!”  

 

“Listen to me… and listen to me carefully,” continued Wyatt. “You will have a daughter called Elizabeth… but no son… and you will be executed on charges of ‘sortilege’.”  He gasped for breath as he blurted his words.  “It is guaranteed unless you turn back and return to Hever Castle with us!”  

 

Anne seemed shocked by the celestial wisdom of her befriender, but noticing his ardent assurance, stepped down from the carriage.  “Well I suppose you’ll have to inform those at the court who are expecting me!”  She murmured in a daze.  “But I suppose a little faux-pas will be accepted by them as much.”  She turned and stared at Wyatt who seemed earnest and deadly serious.  “Back to Hever then we turn ayonder!”

 

And indeed both Anne and Wyatt returned to Hever castle and continued their lives happily and merrily.  Increasingly shunning the royal court, eventually they forgot about her.  Within a couple of years, falling deeper in love, Wyatt and Anne joined each other in marriage.  Thereupon they lived happily ever after!

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THE END