The Passing of Arthur by Julia Margaret Cameron
Passant D’Arthur
Robert E. Stutts
Light piercing
the morning clouds
startles me
with its brightness,
so like the wound
in my side that bleeds
onto the brown grass.
Bedivere has left,
and I have not
even Excalibur
to give me comfort now.
The dreamy whisper
of a hand rising
from the Lake,
see the glint
of sun on steel.
It is done now,
and my eyes are too heavy.
I think Morgan has come,
and Vivian, trailed
by that shrouded Other,
their queens’ hands
gentle lullabyes beneath
my rusted armor,
and I am drifting
to Avalon across the sea
in crimson dreams
that are not mine.
