Under a Car Park in Leicester

The woman in white

stoops over the bones,
lovingly scrapes the mud
away from a crooked line
of vertebrae that snakes
along the bottom of the ditch. 

She must know who he is

already. But proof takes time,

four years, or more like 500,

a process of history and dna.

There is no coffin, nor shroud,

and the grave is perfunctory:

hurriedly dug, with sloping sides

 and too short for the corpse.

At the press conference, cheers

--after a moment of hesitation.

After all, everyone has heard

the rumors, read the play.

But what do we know, really?

There are battle wounds,

the victors’ need for legitimacy. 

Layer after layer

of time’s bitter sediment remains

to brush from old wounds.

In this way, anyway, 

a king’s death is like any other.