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King Arthur's Ruins |
A book of poems lie reminiscent,
plants left dry and withered,
stark house empty of women.
Bare mahogany wood floors
trail in and out,
large spaces wait in empty desolation,
walls beg for canvas.
Six King Arthur chairs
surround a long ornate table,
three ornate silver candlesticks
poise elegantly in the center.
I am free to roam in
medieval ruins.
Pieces in a jigsaw missing,
one mismatched end table,
an elaborate green fringed lamp,
odds and ends bone china,
I drink Earl Gray tea from
a cracked blue cornflower
saucer-less cup.
The bedroom holds necessities period.
A massive ladder backed armchair
positioned expectantly toward
a pristine white curtained open window,
the apple green tree leaves
glinting with morning light and dew
wave with spring promise.
In king-size bed
the Master of the house hugs the edge,
fists tucked to his breast,
wakes easily
a tiptoe in his solitude,
he turns to welcome me
who feels strangely nourished.
copyright 2004
Judith A.
Lawrence |
