“you’ve got somethyng to seye? shoot!”
to arthur tolde guynevere.
“i have gotte the world on mute,
therfore youre soundscape ys cleare.”
“well,” arthur bygan, “it’s the whisperyng knights who shift,
sat unsettlyng around the round table –
that awkward over-sized weddyng gifte.”
“from my father!” guynevere loud voiced, yn this fable.
“sir lancelot,” arthur persisted, “they sayeth
ye doeth set him tests and tenderly keep his ear.”
guynevere feared hire lover risked death,
“noble kyng,” said she, “you have nothyng to dread I sweare.”
“i’ll tell ye what,” cannily contynued she,
“together let’s create what this kyngdom’s askyng for!”
“eh?” arthur came back, “a baby? a dynasty?”
“okay thanne arthur, let’s doon it now, upon the sawdust floor!”
And did they, ripened fruit brought forth seed,
Twas arthur – not lancelot with dirtied knees.
prosperitye followed and vanquished neede,
giftyng eald Engelond manie years of peace.
© Brinkinfield 2020 All Rights Reserved
Part of the Ekphrasis Project (poetry inspired by a collage)