About this Poem:
This unassuming memorial marks the spot (or near enough) where the English King John signed the Magna Carta, on June 15th, 1215. The document was presented to him by an assortment of outraged Barons, rebelling against the unchecked power of the crown, and demanded for them their rights not to be illegally imprisoned, or unfairly taxed, among others. The King, fearing the stability of his rule, signed, and with it began the arduous unravelling of the monarchy's power over the next few centuries. This is often considered the birthplace of the Rule Of Law in England, and as the age of colonialism rolled around, its impact was exported and felt keenly in countries right across the globe.
Incidentally, as a student, it's also where I used to go and get up to, uh, all sorts, at the weekend...
Pretty strange, I know. Ours was a fairly quiet student town, and as politically irreverent youngsters I think we got a kick out of this low-level disrespect. It's a beautiful spot, right on the banks of the river, and in the dead of night makes such a tranquil place to just sit back and listen to the sounds of the countryside echoing all around. There's a gravity to it too, a significance which you just can't escape from no matter how little you think of the Barons' grievances. Their demands were not for us, after all - mere serfs dancing on the graves of the old masters.
We always tided up after ourselves. For what it's worth.
