A queen in a palace, slumped on a throne,
Surrounded by servants but all alone.
Heavy with handshakes, bunches of flowers,
jewels, crowns, grinning for hours.
Fed up, bored, decided to quit
so used her head and some royal spit.
Flicked through a book, picked a random address:
5, The High Street, Inverness.
Stuck her face on a card, destination beneath.
Does one fancy a swap, Ms Morag Mackeith?
Posted it off, didn’t delay.
Saw herself landing, first class next day
with an inky tattoo (yesterday’s date)
on a mat. Sat back. Couldn’t wait
That night she dreamt of burger and chips,
a part-time job with lunchtime kips,
allotment keys and charity shops,
queuing for loos, bingo, bus stops,
neighbours, backyards, The Christmas Club,
a seat by the fire in her local pub.
She tore up her diary, started to pack.
But Morag Mackeith never wrote back.
From The Language of Cat.
- imagining what it might be like to be the queen in this poem. Why do you think she wrote the postcard?
- answering the question: What do you think Morag MacKeith thought of the postcard?