My ornithopter carries me over the Chilterns.
It is diamagnetic to the iron filings
of a thousand starlings. Beneath me,
my enemies shake their fists and one by one,
return to their castles, which stand ruined
like the last teeth in a well-biffed mouth.

I fly East, my boomerang nuzzling my hip
as I list to the right, not looking forward
to becoming Prince Plain again.
Every redhead
in the world wants to touch
their lips to my jawline
when I wear my mask.

They lie in their beds, stare at posters of me
raising my boomerang like a flag.
Their collective sigh is the squawl
that makes the treetops lash.
Their hearts are landmines.

But unmasked, I can only dream.
Beneath me, my enemies,
their colourful fists held up
like semaphore batons.