Poetic Platypus 3.0

In Fall, the trees from Lyonesse to Logres burn in Autumn flashes. So did the heart of Tristram as singing songs of Lancelot and the Queen he rode, thinking of Fair Isolt who late from Eire did come to Mark, the Cornish King.

In the woodland glade at fragrant evening he met Dagonet, Arthur's Fool, skipping as a leaf to the burning music of his addled thought.

"Skip ye then to my music, Sir Fool", he cried.

And Dagonet did not but listen as the leaves waved and danced.

"Like ye not my music," smiled the errant knight. "Ye skip well enough to music half as good."

"Oh, thy music is fair enough", quoth the Fool, "But I can make a song as well as thou."

And from the broken music of his mind, Dagonet echoed back a shadow of the song that Tristram made:

In the plume of foaming splendor,

past the fecund water reads,

Shot the bark of fair Ettaine,

Lilly-lady-fair Elaine,

Whom the people of that region,

Where the lady lost her reason,

And never came to her full season,

Called the maid of Astolat.

Through the fair idyllic splendor,

past the fields of verdant green,

traveled sorrow without measure,

in the bark of maiden-treasure,

that with its solemn passing,

put end to all their laughing,

and to their joyous dancing,

upon Mid-Summer’s Day.

To Caer Leon the river wended,

through the forests of the king,

where the silent beasts bore witness,

In the woods unbroken stillness,

through the vaulted gloom,

a picture of the tomb,

the dark and solemn room,

that waited for the lily maiden.

Through the gates of Merlin’s marvel,

past the straining crowds of men,

went the sullen barge of sable,

as Lancelot beneath the gable,

spoke with his loyal queen,

and told her where he’d been,

how in Astolat he’d seen,

that very same young maiden.

On the quay King Arthur pondered,

as the sullen barge went by,

carrying its vacant cargo,

to be interred upon the morrow,

and called his loyal knight,

who marveled o’re the sight

and swore with all his might

He’d never wronged the maiden.

Upon the high and kingly forehead,

sat the shadow of a frown,

and Lancelot his eyes did lower,

fearing Arthur’s eye’s would glower,

but the rebuke never came,

his eyes remained the same,

and Lancelot in shame,

rode out upon the morrow.