In Camelot, the hours idle.
The covers banding o’er crofts.
And without challenge the riddle meanders inwards.
Sheering beneath sudden timbers
Her deep heart splinters willowing branches.
Each frond switching now and then within inches.
This hopeless tender muscle, Lingers in my mind until dark.
Her memory of it’s sodden carcass, blinding.
And within that foreverness, the vanishing pictures – now there, now there, now there – enter that space, flexing.
Their sinuous and meated frames trapping images of kings, grand palaces of solitude and diaphanous white unicorns.
A pale rider rises in the saddle clutching horse hair brushes;
The stallion’s mane gripped, the rider’s thumbs, the rhythm of their dance lifts dust, veiling effort
Beneath atomized skeins of men’s lives; the battleground, the christening dress, the old lace curtains, the birch comb.
A hammer falls from his other hand.
A scullery maid’s knuckles.
The clutter from Tuesday’s lunch, cheese platters, cake and the clatter of large drums - ratta-tat-tat, Ratta-tat-tat, Ratta-tat-tat.
A letter.
Font.
Fountain.
Pen.
Nib.
It’s rows of muddy purple bushes, tolled by educated hands. Its terracotta baked and laboured by minds with knowledge wrought from books.
