By Aeronwy Dafies
Hard lightning, magic blade, Caliburn named Excalibur,
Wielded by the Pendragon, Duke of Battle,
Seen by his fellow countrymen as their saviour,
Never shirking duty nor fleeing vicious battle
Two serpents mark the hilt of that sacred blade
A mythic weapon whose glory shall never fade.
By Steve Sneyd
on on
up steep snow land
to where winter-green huge
holly waits, blood-eyed that sharp stare,
axe-keen
A Balance Sheet
By Steve Sneyd
He 'one of three frivolous bards of Britain'
she recorded down as 'known for murderous savagery'
a priest here a saint there a gimcrack protem
senate of a half dead town complaining somewhere
goods were taken and not paid for, when splendid
from far off as the storm, no pleasure to endure,
the warband came thundering through: in hills
far abiove the struggle shepherds heard names
of battles round the fire but did not care
what language or race the winner,
only glad somewhere some ruler killed,
one ruler less to come collecting beasts for tax
in exchange for government and justice
which did not exist. The fat beast
would see you through the winter,
as for the invader, what need to fight
whoever it might be; the fog, the snow the mud,
the marshy moss, would soon deflect
such trouble to another flatter place. All
these gave witness as they saw it; the answers
to far winds, lost forests, broken
forts, blacktooth on headlands
untenanted have passed to answer us
only as things unseen stir still beneath dull soil
to shake unshorn grass: "My songs
made joke of all things under heaven, well, why
not laugh at this world that has no better
joke to offer than life given only so
minute by minute all conspires with all
to take it back again. You say my wife a cruel
savage, heartless to the end. I say she'd
heart too much and tried to fit not one but
two men inside it, and hated priests, storm crows
who called her blameful, only as life hates death."
By Aeronwy Dafies
The clash of arms is silenced now
The roar of battle is in the grave
Buried with the warriors who fought here
Final resting place of king and knave.
The grass grows deep, the only life is sheep
Overhead even the gorecrows now are few.
And with the rot of flesh of friend and enemy
The battle fades now into myth from memory.
(Of Alderley Edge In Cheshire)
By Maureen Braithwaite
Arthur walks in Avalon,
So the legend goes,
But nearer than that say I,
That Arthur heals his wounds.
He sleeps in a place called Alderley,
Protected by the Wizard's stone,
Surrounded by his Knights, ready for the fight,
With swords keen and hearts and bold.
Their milk white steeds are also there,
As though captured in frozen flight,
Manes tossed, tails plumed and flared,
They lie under muted light.
Ready for when England becomes entombed,
In her darkest hour,
Then will they wake and make ready,
To make the enemy cower.
Riding out with armour ablaze,
Steeds wild eyed and fast as dragon flame,
With golden banner flying high,
Whipped by the wind under sunset sky.
Till then dear Arthur,
Dream sweet and calm,
With the Wizard watching over you,
To cast healing spell and sing sweet Psalm.