deepundergroundpoetry.com
At Glastonbury
Beneath the Glastonbury sky
a king has lain
for Autumns out of time
and past remembering,
the appled earth his keep.
So will it be that buried breathless,
deep,
for all these years within the Isle of Glass,
that only this will come to pass:
He shall not ever wake,
he shall not ever make anew Jerusalem
upon our hills,
his sword a thing forever sleeping in
his hand
or rusted, dull beneath
the surface of a Lady’s lake?
Or is it this
if all the legends running there
along the ruined vaults and choirs,
the groves in mist,
the shadow of the Tor,
are true:
He is not dust.
He's only readying to rise
and call, with blazoned trumpetings,
a noble luster up in English yeomen’s eyes
for God and Arthur and St. George?
a king has lain
for Autumns out of time
and past remembering,
the appled earth his keep.
So will it be that buried breathless,
deep,
for all these years within the Isle of Glass,
that only this will come to pass:
He shall not ever wake,
he shall not ever make anew Jerusalem
upon our hills,
his sword a thing forever sleeping in
his hand
or rusted, dull beneath
the surface of a Lady’s lake?
Or is it this
if all the legends running there
along the ruined vaults and choirs,
the groves in mist,
the shadow of the Tor,
are true:
He is not dust.
He's only readying to rise
and call, with blazoned trumpetings,
a noble luster up in English yeomen’s eyes
for God and Arthur and St. George?
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