The Last Vagabond King

 

The Impossible King

On the shores,

the rugged shores,

the old man kisses

his own fingers - bare of rings -

and kneels by crab-filled rock pools,

ignoring the schools of dolphin

bowing as they leave the water.

 

At his side,

his sinister side,

the chamberlain Kay

wears a daisy chain of office

over a frayed fertilizer sack

that covers his dowager’s hump,

scratching ill-healed battlefield scars.

 

Yet the tide,

the roiling tide,

brings eternal plastic flotsam

and never-paired boots, sandals

or the shoes of the fisherman,

leaving cargo-cult symbols

lying useless on the pebbled beach.

 

 

The King at Court

In the dock,

at five o’clock:

seer’s beard , long shaven

standing tall, not craven.

Dignified,

staring-eyed,

before the law.

Tooth and claw

bared in rage,

before the cage

opens wide

‘Go inside,

your majesty’

in travesty and jest.

The noble head will rest.

 

 

Camelodunum

 

A false night falls as street lamps ignite later than planned.

The town illuminates haphazardly; the message

passes from lamp-post to lamp-post

- with some Chinese-whispered mutation -

as on is mistaken for off.

 

They sit in the round -shivering- beneath the underpass,

dining on the bounty of Tesco’s refuse containers.

From Romania, Rwanda and Rio,

via every underground station,

they come here to Camelot.

 

A once and future kingdom lies buried in shadows,

hidden from beauty and the clean light of the sun

Arthur is a Fisher King-

or any fitting appellation,

for the King of Forgotten Albion.