From Hampton Court to the great Abbey, we hunted
for Henry the VIII's remains, scoured castles
and halls for the Tudor king. We whispered

over Westminster bones as cold as the marble
slabs that roofed poets and statesmen
and monarchs; but His Majesty was not there

among the effigies of long-dead princes.
Guidebooks, of course, would yield answers,
but there's no thrill in indexed travel. Blind

dates, road trips unmapped and who-done-it twists
are far more intriguing gambles. However aptly anglo-
macabre, the VIII's final bed would not rest

near the green where cousin wives #'s 2 & 5
lost their heads, or close by one missed lover's
knot. St. Paul's too new, the Tower's all wrong, so

on to Windsor. We found it fitting that he lie
completely at rest in a place he completed, always
preferring the accidental encounter.

April 2005