Le Dormir De L’Arthur
Updated: Nov 18
“Yet some men say in many parts of England that King Arthur is not dead, but had by the will of our Lord Jesu into another place; and men say that he shall come again, and he shall win the holy cross.”
― by Thomas Malory
Where Ivy ropes tangle, twist and grow
To crumble slabs of old and wearied stone
And climb through towers high and cellars low
That no Man, nor Lord, nor Earl could claim to own.
Where no cricket, hopper, mite has ever sung
And streams of water walk, instead of run,
And days and nights are only marked sun
And the lonely bird must learn to sing alone.
The sea beats hard against those rocky walls
Where winds and waters merge in misty haze
But inside there’s none to mark those rising falls
‘cept honeyed bees that whisper through their days.
Now leave the water winds wailing their despair
And leave the water’s side, and climb the stairs,
And come in peace, to find the courtyard there
Where the King of Sword and Stone forever lays
An eon’s sleep wears not upon that face.
His flesh is still, but does not yet grow cold
And the crown upon that brow still gleams with grace.
The grey upon his beard still wars with gold,
His eyes are closed but flicker with their sleep
With dreams of wars they won inside this keep,
Of golden victories! Of prices far too steep,
For the king of sword and stone who won’t grow old.
The courtyard walls are firm and standing tall
The king within sees not their sturdy frame
Summers succumb to Winter, Springs to Fall
Before the king is called to take up arms again.
His sleep is peaceful though he sleeps alone,
the nights break cool upon the weathered stones
Celestial bodies hang steady, in their charted zones
And guard the courtyard where their king is lain.
Betrayal cuts through loyalty, like skin must yield to steel
But deception may slither long past trusting eyes.
Emrys has long since coaxed the skin to heal
But a love wound festers far beyond its time
the film of anger sitting on the tongue
Each breath that stabs before it leaves the lungs
Each suspicion, pushed aside, now free to run.
And turns a lover’s warmth to bitter wine.
Blood turned against a blood that matched their own.
And knights that once had sworn to serve and kneel,
They broke their oath and turned against their crown
For a woman’s love that was not theirs to feel.
They say; her hair was warm as flame upon a stove
With lips curving gentle, as golden cupid’s bows,
Both red and soft as the English garden rose.
She was lovely as a golden shore – but never his to steal.
But the past is but an echo to this place,
Where Myrdinn brought him after it was done.
Betrayal fades like flickers on the face,
Like shadows passing briefly ‘cross the sun.
No word, nor thought, nor deed can harm his sleep,
Within his peaceful spot beneath the steep
And sheltering walls that make that castle keep,
Where Arthur rests alone, in Avalon.
Insp. Le Mort De L’Arthur by Thomas Malory