2020.10.10.
Legend
Go and tell my dear islet yonder, far away,near this dark Foulc swamp on the moor
I shall go visit her tonight and she shall wait
to hear my footsteps soon as the moon waxes.
You'll find her bathing her feet under the sedge,
her hair untied, her eyes half-closed,
so naive, holding a hand over her mouth
to avoid startling the sleeping birds awake.
For the swamp is all misty with legends
like the sky one can glimpse in her eyes
as they drink the kind moonlight on the moor
or the sad winds blowing from the highlands.
Tell her I've spent marvellous dawns
watching birds coming from the North,
so close to her as she shied from the cold
lying at my feet like a sleeping wildling.
Tell her September is drawing to a close
and winters are harsh in these forsaken lands
Tell her a mess of flowers is still strewn
in front of the French windows of my room.
Herald me like a prophet, like a prince,
like the son of a king from beyond the sea.
Tell her my counties are flooded with scents
and the highlands do not endure winter.
Tell her balconies will be decked with flowers
and she will bathe in pools untouched by fevers
but I would like to read in her darkened eyes
the savage secret dying now on his lips,
the riddle of a gaze of pure knowledge
that sometimes gleams from the enthralling flash
of the great initiates in games of knowledge
and roamers of the sea under deserted skies...