poems9

The young maiden has a restless night,
Of dreams and visions both.
The fifteen year old is troubled more,
And can tell no one of what she saw.

A magnificent sword, shining towers,
And royalty are part of what she sees.
Yet a dark cloud covers the blissful sight,
As a plague that comes like an eerie blight.

A witch that threatens the safety of all,
From within the family itself.
A youth related from the throne,
Destined to destroy the good things sewn.

Another man comes into the scene,
Shining and noble too.
Is he a threat, or is he dear?
The clouds are never very clear.

As the maiden wakes up in another cold sweat,
'Avalon' the last thing on her mind.
Was it all a strange dream for some?
Or, perhaps what's yet to come?

Her maiden dreams were redolent of love,
Warm-bosomed as she breathed the passionate air
Of old romance, and did in fancy move
'Mong the gay knights who died for ladies fair;
Until she heard the thunder of the press,
And so became a lover; her heart rang
The note of love's alarm, his tenderness,
When in the onset all the tourney sang.
And she was one of the dead ladies who,
In beauty's blazon, to his misty bower
With Launcelot, when the Queen was gone, withdrew
Under the shadow of the tourney tower;
And, lilting to him through the gloaming, made
His heart a lyre wheron her passion played.

Where is the Dream,
That we once shared?
Of a Land full of heroes,
Of those that cared.

Where is the Hope,
For a Realm so Grand?
Where honour and truth,
Would cover the land.

Where is the Time,
One that we cherish?
When the bravest knights,
Would make evil perish.

Where are the Maidens,
The ones so pure?
Who's love was Forever,
And could be so sure.

Where is the Man,
Of which we all sing?
Gone forth to Avalon,
The once and future King.