The Lady of the Lake

excalibur_sword2

Still, silent, glass-like smooth,
Willows dripping in,
Shivers ripple, icy thin,
Breeze and breath and wind.

Mist moves lazy, hanging still,
Silver moon behind,
Picture perfect, lake and air,
So rare a view to find.

A stirring in the middle,
Wavelets rippling out,
Concentric in their form,
A sword appears, no doubt.

Sharp point first, then blade, then hilt,
Leather grip now follows,
Wrapped around by elite hand,
The Watcher stares and swallows.

Like an alabaster statue,
Arm emerges, reaching far,
Followed by the crown of head,
Encircled by a star.

Flowing hair surrounds oval face,
Cheekbones high and slanted,
Teardrop glowing, purple eyes,
All seeing, knowing, haunted.

Nose upturned and perky,
Lips of rosy red,
Jawline smooth and strong,
Flawless skin for bed.

Her body follows, draped in voile,
Hints of curves and places,
Secrecy surrounds her now,
As she, on water, paces.

Touching to the shore,
She stands in silent wait,
Her gaze slides side to side,
Searching for her mate.

The Watcher now steps forward,
Abided well his time,
She lowers sword towards him
As if to say, “You’re mine!”

He bows his head in greeting,
The movement of a King,
She drives the sword in deep,
The Earth around them sings.

Releasing grip, she watches,
Knowing his next move,
He silently steps forward,
Skilful, graceful, smooth.

Takes the sword by handle,
Lifts it free from ground,
Swirls it ’round his head,
Slicing air with sound.

Then moving to the lady,
Placing arm around her waist,
Seductively he gathers
The Lady of the Lake.

Prophecy fulfilled,
The time they share so brief,
For each must soon return
To respective lives, belief.

Both desire more,
The feeling that they share,
But passion spent and weary,
They part then turn to stare.

A sight now to behold,
Each staring at the other,
Memories for life,
A King, a Lady, mother.

With a sigh both turn away,
Moving to their homes,
He to Castle Keep,
She to deepest tomes.

Yet the story of their meeting,
In the fabled lands of old,
The sword, the love, the child,
Forever shall be told.

Passed from voice to voice,
The ending, middle, start,
Grabbing full attention
Of people with good heart.

Reminding of the old ways,
Long forgotten times,
When men lived by their honour,
And magic ruled in rhymes.

Times we could relive,
If we could see what isn’t there,
Respect and trust and honesty,
Lives and thoughts laid bare.

Times our souls now ache for,
In the passing of our day,
Times we will return to
When the ferryman we pay.

****

© Copyright Robin McShane 2015
See this blogs copyright statement

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