The Return of Arthur

Gold his hair, gold his beard, blue his piercing eye.
Striding on the glassy waters of the mere,
By the willows, past the rushes, past the swans
He comes to where the silver lilies bloom.
‘Midst the lilies stand the Lady of the Lake,
“Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,”
And in her hand, the strong sword Excalibur,
Once given, once received, given once again,
On one side written in runic script, “Take me,”
And on the other, “Never cast me away.”
His strong hands grasp and swing Excalibur
Humming, singing, through the stillness of the air,
And hearing the sword song the swans in tumult
Rise with the fierce beating of their mighty wings
Circling in joy ‘round the Lady and their King.
A thousand years have passed, year after year
Since Arthur stood upon the grass of England’s
Mountains green or walked beneath its Druid woods.
Old things now arise murmuring in the gloom,
Ancient evils are afoot. The time has come.
In dank and darkling woods Britain gathers strength.
Now ancient Logres rises once again, and
At the ripening of the years Arthur comes.

Now in the waning of the dreary years of
Middle earth, heaven and hell bring forth their dead
In obedience to the wailing trumpet
Call that sounds across the ages,
Granting refrigerium, a cooling time,
A holiday, and excursion, if you will,
From their ethereal lusts and shadow life,
And in the farthest distance Arthur’s Judas,
Mordred arises with slouching insouciance,
With his evil eye and sallow spiteful face.
With him arise all who once swore fealty
To the Round Table, to Arthur, but followed
After Mordred and sought the life of their King.
From deep unto great deep comes the King
His kingdom to receive and give once again,
The kingdom, the Round Table and ev’ry siege
A siege to be filled by chivalrous men.

One not truly dead, dreaming of Nimuë,
Merlin dreaming cauchemar, nightmares teaching him
Humility, forsaking arrogance,
Wiser now, but riddler still, and eager now,
To serve King; No devil’s spawn was he.
That lie was touted by Morgana Le Fey
Who was bedded by a churl and bare Mordred,
No son of Arthur, but a poisoned sickly
Child, as Mage Merlin by clever art well knew.
Now in the chamber beneath the rock Merlin’s
Long sleep is at its end, he stirs, beads of sweat
Break out upon his brow, his heart once frozen
At last begins to beat, strength returns to limbs,
His eyes beholding earth’s true darkness rejoice
At not seeing shadowlands where walk the dead.
He stretches forth his hand and feels cold stone
Where on he lies, discovering fresh grace.
His staff is near at hand, he lifts it high,
He utters one soft command and light breaks forth.
He rises, and stretches forth the staff again,
Light from the staff flashes forth. His strong shout of
Command echoes from the cavern’s arching roof.
The roof is rent in twain, and the morning light
Shines through the swirling dust as Merlin steps forth.
Centuries passed on middle earth. Arthur calls his mage.

There is an abbess, some say she never died,
Rising in dark, praying seven times a day,
In choir singing sweet melodious songs.
Her heart filled with joy, it was not always so.
Pain and love and love and pain had filled her days.
Of all women, save for one, she was most fair.
The one she humbly serves is Mother of us all.
Fair queen of faithful Arthur and paramour
And shame of the mighty Lancelot du Lake.
Therein lay her fault, she failed to love the highest,
And she also failed to love herself, saying
He “who loves me must have a touch of earth.”
From her hidden guilt sprang her deep resentment,
Crying out “My Lord, Arthur the faultless King,”
“He is all fault who hath no fault at all.”
So saying she missed forever Arthur’s love
And earned forever her estrangement.
Gladly interceding for the one she lost.