The day of kings

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Tintagel Castle
Today was the day

of kings,

living on the edge,

the edge of

the world,

whose castle

grows

out of the rock,

layer on layer.

Where the

ancient rock ends

and the

ancient place begins?

Moated

by turquoise waters

and beyond;

where blue

fades

into the sky,

or clear,

where azure

cuts the scape

in half;

where clouds,

small,

build

bank on bank,

lined arsenals

awaiting

command

from the wind,

fleeting

or in fury.

In fury

the ancient place

pounded

above and below,

forces so strong

from on high

and whipping up

the cavalry waves

below,

to come

again

and again.

Did that mortal king

dream

a different day?

When justice

would roll like

the rivers

and mercy

like a never-ending

stream?

Til that day

he must stand

sentinel

and guard

his kingdom.

Did he dream

a day

when this

heavy burden

would  rest on

others’ shoulders?

Or in his dream

did he know

it was to this

that his life

pointed,

magnificent

and noble?

 

And for this

he would

return.

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