Poems

 

 

 

Mordred

 

A mean wind of the heart

Ever pushed Sir Mordred

to heathen passes,

to spill dirty blood.

 

A dead wind

Echoes in the bloody chamber

of this pagan upstart.

 

He is free

To sink into the abyss again.

Born from the shadows of the feral king

He rises like a soldier of Christ,

Rending limbs to the voice of days to be,

Looking normal and cheerful,

tumbling down his death-black blood.