Sunday, 27 January 2019

Strange Tale

   
You could call it a strange tale,
wherever you came from, for it seemed I turned
around one day to
the sound of a distant song that you were singing
on a tree branch
somewhere high, and all at once
I could see nothing
but
the colour
of the sky when my eyes first found you,
and the deeper soul of yours; hear nothing but my beauty
where once were only flaws and cracks so many, time fell still and lost,
so great had been my sacrifice,
the giving and the cost of what had gone before,
the things I'd let them take,
so deep had been my Excalibur at the bottom of a
haunted lake, that I was certain,
such strength would never return,
but fingers interlaced with yours, to smoulder and
to burn became my natural state:
my morning and my night,
your tiger to my lioness, flames licked beneath
moonlight reflecting
on the sea,
all full where once was void, to leap at stars
and then be free in waves and foam,
in ecstasy and joy.
   
And then to scratch, upon the rocks
and bleed, you made me show you,
my every wound
and mark,
and told me amidst my shame, they were
amour pieces of courage
that
not ever had been scars:
and you stopped my heart and pointed,
how dark the sky had grown above,
and reached into the lake with
a fist of iron love - you drew out Excalibur,
and handed him to me;
'I never saw
a knight more worthy,'
you whispered
on the breeze.
    

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