My mind flows deep into the far sea bungled up with rust
My soul melts through decaying visions of whirling dust
The green roaring future calls me away
I’m on my way
Arthur’s waiting !
Should I meet the Lady of the Lake having a rest
In the midst of a forlorn forest
I shall tell her my name
And pretend to be tame
I have my dagger, my book and my shield
One of my poems should make her yield !
Arthur’s waiting !
Years pass by, plodding on muddy causeways,
Their massive awkward raw heels bleeding memories
And no one can help it
Only prophets -alas!- can spit
Look here, shadows of yonder, I shan’t take up the gauntlet,
For,I’m not the one to be taken away yet !
Walk on, chug away, pick someone else, if you must
But not me, pray, I don’t want to turn into dust
I know, I know : April calls May…
And as people say:
Today’s tomorrow’s promise
And dawn’s the night’s heiress
But I’d rather stay awake
And wait for the Lady of the Lake
Excuse me if I seem to beg…
Seven drops of the Grail’s dreg
They would, no doubt, heal my wounds
King of Hell, hold your howling hounds!
Arthur’s waiting !
Folks of old inhabit my dreams
I can hear the bushes wail
And the maids curl
I can see the moon sail
And the weeds whirl
Translucent waves carry the goddess
Tide’s scum and brine enhance her dress
Behold the fear of the black depth !
A gleaming pulse engulfs the earth
I thrust my desire deep into thy heart
Don’t depart
O Lady of the Lake !
Arthur can wait…
Ian Brewart