Tuesday, 16 October 2012


No, it still won't let me insert pics, and since I gained inspiration to write through pics...
I'm on strike. Sorry!


The Crystal Fountain and the Doe

THE CRYSTAL FOUNTAIN AND THE DOE

Sir Pellias, with mortal wound, from the battlefield of Sir Gawaine,
entered deep into the forest, where he wilted in his saddle
and there a dwarf and lady saw his final humiliation,
straddled, leaning on his spear and mourning his almost-late demise.

The dwarf and lady led the horse deeply into the forest,
to a saintly monk, by a secret crystal fountain and a chapel,
whose bells chimed twelve and there the knight drooped deeply into coma:
the death-wound from Sir Gawaine, as thin as water.
Last rites prepared; a lady, fay with beauty, took his necklace
and then enchanted his foul wound with magic, stemmed the tide
of blood-flow, like the crystal fountain in the forest dell,
where a doe and fawn of wide-eyed peace stood fearless, tasting herbs.

The hermit, like St Francis, fed – as tame – a flock of birds,
but saw her faerie light of gold and emeralds and opals.
He held his peace as Nymue poured
                                                from a crystal phial, the blue
elixir that would raise Sir Pellias from the breath of death.
Soon his mortal body rose, half fay but less half-dead.
Then she took the chalice water, gave true crystal fountain life,
until his body, light as air, was dilated by pure joy.
He pledged fair troth to Nymue… who had loved him long ago,
a barefoot, brown-skinned maid who wetted his appetite for pure milk.
 
He was half-fay, and she was all, this Lady of the Lake;
Sir Gawaine enquired and followed -late – a mortally wounded knight
and saw a path of blue, a clearing like a moonlit lake.
There radiance bloomed with meadow flowers,
                                                a chalice lake of faerie,
where he soon fell to forest floor in penitent fear and passion.
‘Touch me not,’ Sir Pellias’ voice rang thin as silver bells.
‘I go to the city of azure, gold; of opals, emeralds and flowers.’
The light shone from his countenance like joy, calm as a lake
reflecting perfect mountains and a sky of royal blue.
There was no storm of high-tide joy, nor ebb of hearts cast low.
The Lady of the Lake and knight walked to a vanishing
of moonbeam water, crystal fountain;
                                                a wide-eyed, milk-lit doe.
Thus ends the tale of Pellias, a companion at the Table,
while Sir Marhaus joined King Arthur and became a foremost knight.
Yet what of fickle Lady Ettard, whose love waned like the moon?
She married her eleven-month faithful knight, Sir Engamore of Grantmesnle.
 

Tuesday, 28 August 2012


CREATION’S FINAL LAW*  Wendy Webb

Our natures love all animals of rage,
born liquid eyes of innocence and peace.
God-traced humanity on every page
that turns our wildness tame when warrings cease.

Born liquid eyes of innocence and peace
delight us in the safety of a nest,
that turns our wildness tame when warrings cease
within a garden where our hearts find rest.

Delight us in the safety of a nest,
of startling softest fur in mist and glade;
within a garden where our hearts find rest,
where flashing amber coat drifts into shade.

Of startling softest fur in mist and glade
and panting comic grimace, pad and sniff,
where flashing amber coat drifts into shade,
squelch-rising stench of tooth and claw, of whiff

and panting, comic grimace, pad and sniff;
a whistle or a bugle on the breeze,
squelch-rising stench of tooth and claw, of whiff
of blood-soaked hounded pelt dragged to its knees.

A whistle or a bugle on the breeze,
as surf strips blubber, nets a drowning trade
of blood-soaked hounded pelt dragged to its knees,
to flippers, fins and salt where skins are made;

as surf strips blubber, nets a drowning trade
reduced to bladderwrack of seagull screams,
to flippers, fins and salt where skins are made
like mares or unicorns in knighted dreams.

Reduced to bladderwrack of seagull screams,
God-traced humanity on every page.
Like mares or unicorns in knighted dreams,
our natures love all animals of rage.
 

* Quote from Tennyson

 

Wednesday, 25 April 2012

Stonehenge


STONEHENGE


Perambulating slow intent,
in anti-clockwise motions
bowed in prayer
of audio handsets keyed to sign
each ancient fact beneath a sweeping sky.
All zooming poses web the earth
to standing stones
in puddles spreading nets.
Where Salisbury planes the rise of jackdaws
and sunset flick of mare’s tail
fast downwind.
Gnats on the bite of time.