Deep within this Celtic earth
under lush fields of jade,
where warriors clashed, fell
and kings strode on horseback.
A distance from the commoner,
raised their noble standards high,
unfurling spirit-like in the wind
to kneel before the lines.
They crossed war’s territory,
bled roses from white to red.
Under these pastures
lies the native flame,
tradition borne upon the back
of an unfolding legend.
The wind recalls the voices,
stalwart oaks hold in their sap
an elixir of times gone by,
Arthurian legend,
Tintagel and Camelot.
Fine Excalibur may be all but lost,
castle strongholds blemished
with moss to be newly touched.
Brooks may have lost direction,
the toil of the peasant forgotten,
but guarded beneath it all,
till this sceptered isle is wasted,
bard’s pleats of notions
trampled, then finally extinguished,
the Lion’s emblems smoulder.
