Is this Avalon, this mirrored mere
caught between Mendip curve and sea?
One magic winter’s day, when azure
sky spread light both high and low,
we were spellbound here.
Powder-pink the clouds their glowing spill
as ribbon rhynes turn baby blue;
Glints of steel and copper sheathe beneath
the meres. A sun-spear arcs, low-
flung from cloud to hill.
Gold pours on high, spanning Arthur’s tor,
Gilds the murmuring of starlings
that curls in mass from lake to hilltop:
Whorl-black meets lucent dazzle.
Opal light floods moors.
A buzzard slides gliding, stoops upon
embattled lines of clacking reeds,
whose pale gold plumes dip and dart, oathbound.
Cuffed by coils of winter wind
coots dash, splash… are gone.
Ripples skim, scud, flock like roosting fowl,
thickening round the scattered wrack
of blackened weeping willows, broken,
scarred, dripping their ancient hearts
in a plangent pool.
A naked birch stoops coyly over
her dull-bronze dappled stagnant pond.
Dark water stirs, shifting… lifts a glint
of hope, a hint, thought that lifts –
So swift the quiver.
Flicks a flash, a dazzle in the eye.
Light springs: the once and future king’s
soul soars, leaps from cold captivity,
lifts with fabled mighty arm
Caliburn on high.
Avalon once more! Britain’s Dragon
hearing his people call, rises
radiant, freed from fettered waters.
Sword in hand, erupts in spray,
Captures the kingdom.