Isle Of Apples Poem by Philip Dodd

The Round Table is broken,
to divide this green island, Britain.
Now I must obey the last words of Merlyn.
Take Excalibur, the sword of Arthur,
that I alone could draw from the stone,
down to the edge of yonder mere,
Sir Bedivere, and throw it out on the water,
as far as your strength can,
to be your last deed for me,
as my faithful knight, a true courageous man.
Prepare in your grief to see a wonder,
as the Lady of Faerie takes my sword
away to her land.
Mordred is dead who came against me,
to take my crown and throne.
He lies with pale skin and empty hand
in the mud of the battlefield,
among crows and his abandoned shield,
like all betrayers he died unloved, alone.
My ideal I made real, if only for a short time.
That it came to ruin hurts me more than my wounds.
Look, the black barge comes towards me through the mist,
to take me to Avalon.
On the Isle of Apples may I be healed.
The dragon under the mountain was woken,
but now rain sweeps over the burnt field.
We who achieved the Grail will not be forgotten.