I know that I am not originally of this time ... Donna J. Fennel
A LIVING LEGEND IN ARTHUR’S TIME® My humble homage to the legendary Robin Hood.
(Also known as his Highness, Richard the Lionhearted).
Original, mythical, Arthurian poetic tavern tale by
Donna J. Fennel on this 13th day of February, 2003.
Revised by a cozy, winking fireside on March 19, 2006.
Introspective reflection upon an era wherein I once lived.
Allow me now to transcend you into my other lifetime ...
I cometh now from a very distant time ~
While having witness'd all manner of things.
My name is hearkened and now upraised ~
In praise in the halls of mountain kings.
From the well-fashioned palaces of princes
Embracing castles of nobility before us ~
"Midst gray groves of the ancient Druids
I maketh my home in Sherwood Forest.
I protect noble King Arthur, the Blessed ~
And reigning royalty in neighboring lands
Who hath stood at the iron gates of Annwyn ~
While wielding swords in their noble hands.
They who hath bestoweth forth the Hallows ~
The four Holiest of Divine One's subjects
Who hath now bless'd our majestic land.
I hath stood on wall of the turning fortress
As world below hearkens mine battle cry.
God’s humble mercenary am I, Robin Hood ~
Who, with Merlin on mountain high I hath stood.
I hath drunk of the mystical waters of Arwen ~
And from the legendary Cauldron of Inspiration
Nine nights and days, in the cave of Cerridwen ~
I wait patiently for mine beloved Maid Marion.
Yeah, so many times, I hath sojourned to Camelot ~
Where I tread King Arthur’s hallowed halls of gold.
In search of the Holy Grail, most sanctified of hosts ~
Whence I be 'mongst Camelot’s monarchy of ghosts.
Yeah, I hath humbly stood in the Holy catacombs ~
Where the Holy Son of Man hath been laid to rest.
I hath spoken to Magi in the groves of Avaron ~
Erstwhile legion valiantly fulfilled the Holy Quest.
'Pon mine breast I proudly wear the Lion’s crest.
I hath traveled many regions with brave legions
Between the cities of Aquitaine and Emmaus ~
Where I hath heard the words of the wisest of wise
Erstwhile singing sonnets to princes and princesses.
I am still enclosed in this circle dubbed as our world ~
In the pattern of creation, where I worship mine source.
'Pon mine gallant horse, I seek the tremendous force ~
Erstwhile by Orion’s Belt, I doth chart my true course.
Cometh now dreary morning, as we rode into battle ~
‘Twas palest sun that cold, blustery December day.
As it rose cheerlessly o’er cold, somber hills of gray.
And, darkly circled, emanated towards brink o’ noon ~
A sadder, dismal opalescence than the waning moon.
Slow-tracing it descended, down the thickening sky ~
Its mute yet ere foreboding and ominous prophecy.
‘Twas an omnipresent omen appearing less a threat ~
Erstwhile it doth sank from sight before it finally set.
‘Twas bone-crippling chill that no coat, however stout
Of homespun stuff and fluff could ere quite shut out.
Yea, lurking there ‘twas harsh, dull bitterness of cold ~
That checked, mid-vein, before huddled, circling race
Of lifeblood in gruesome planes of thy sharpened face.
Lo, woeful wind blew east, whence we heard a roar ~
Of grandest ocean spread 'pon its winter-clad shore.
And the legion sensed a strong pulse throbbing there ~
Against the low, mesmerizing rhythm of our inland air.
Alas, Fate deemed we lose many souls that fateful day ~
Erstwhile watching it fade into gradient hues of grey.
We be still unwarmed by any embracing sunset light ~
As our legion witness'd the grey darken into night.
‘Twas nebulous night made horrific by battling swarm ~
We fought heroic deed, erstwhile trying to keep warm.
Lo, foremost ferocious tempest of the blinding snow ~
Like mightiest vortex, it wavered wickedly to and fro.
It came to pass, whence ferocious North wind bore ~
As the breeze drew its last breath before its death.
While low-circling ‘round its sulking southern zone ~
The sun through dazzling, icy snowy mists shone.
‘Twas no church bell that lent its Christian tone ~
To the savage air, nor there be phantasm of smoke
Curled o’er thy woods of noblest snow-hung oak ~
Legion and I rode to battle in mine rich velvet cloak.
Lurketh there, now be solitude made ere so intense ~
By dreary-voiced Mother Nature’s tranquil elements.
Hearkening the banshee cries of the mindless wind ~
Erstwhile the moaning tree boughs swayed ere blind.
And upon the gilded, icy grass, the unmeaning beat ~
Lay ghostly fingertips adorned with crystalline sleet.
Behold, beyond comfort circle of our merry hearth ~
‘Twas no welcome sound bellowing of toil or mirth.
As night drew onward, from yonder grand crest ~
Of wooded knolls and valleys that ridged the west
The sun, a snow-blown, weary traveler, doth sank ~
From our legion’s sight beneath the smothering bank.
And ere the early brink of bedtime eventually came ~
Erstwhile creamy drifts piled 'pon our window frames.
And through glass, our makeshift clothesline posts ~
Appeared menacingly, as tall and sheeted ghosts.
‘Twas whence the second morning finally shone ~
We gazed 'pon this brave, new world yet unknown.
Beckons now the land, calling Richard to his throne ~
O'er yonder castle where the imperial sun once shone.
Nevertheless, we could finally claim all as our own ~
For we were, indeed, able to save Camelot, our home!
Beyond Mists of Avalon, Camelot rejoices in song ~
As the legend of our King Arthur eternally lives on.
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