One Poem by David Barber

 

Le Dernier Chevalier du Graal

A knight at the gate. The steward leads him

into the Great Hall and points out a bench

amongst drunk courtiers and their women.

 

In the days of his valour, lords made space

beside them to better hear him speak

of tourney, imperilled maidens, and the Grail.

 

Wasn't the wild wood a haunt of dragons,

where sorcerers hoarded their last magic

in ancient towers overgrown by time?

 

Proud knights would bar the way at bridges,

a passage of arms the toll for crossing,

and no one of true heart refused the lance.

 

Standing shoulder to shoulder in the fight,

they became a fellowship that somehow

proved them better than they knew themselves,

 

the burliest of them round the Table

spellbound as Arthur spoke of visions,

mailed fists thumping approval for the Quest.

 

Yet when Guinevere came to Camelot

who guessed her doom was to betray the king,

or that the waters would reclaim the fated sword?

 

Eager hoofbeats; a lance shocked to splinters;

foes tumbling backwards; his name being cheered;

King Arthur come to shake him by the hand.

 

But that was long ago, his comrades dead,

their lives become tales invented by bards.

Addressed, the ancient knight did not reply.

 

Arthur himself coming to shake his hand.

By David Barber