A raindrop on a petal, the tear upon her lash,

    her eyes quietly upon her son's, so like his father's, deeply strong, gray and open with welcome and affection for all,  set below the same uncivil ash blonde hair, provocative against the draping Mantle spun of Eastern cloth in lapis blue, worn by the King our first enchanted night so long ago, worn to honour statesmen, champions, and to bless the festival of TheTurning and the celebrations of The Gathering these twenty seasons, a king beloved of his people, the kindness and the  justice of their Kingdom  enshrined in this cloak recently trimmed in the wolf's pelt sewn in arduous tribute to her husband who had battled the beast to mutual death when it attacked them walking,

that the son stands Mantled now so soon,
and the tear, a star falling with the lowering of her eyes as she softly speaks,
long, live the king