The Lady Of The Lake Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Scarred for stewardesses
And how they run like sweet minnows through
Each and every nebular shadow,
Serving the open and vulnerable commuters who pass
Like the dead between the borders
Of so many states,
And new loves are found and buried,
And new talents are taken into the sea
And mothballed like
The wine into the skeleton’s lips;
While we were going down,
I had no one’s hand to hold, but it was still
Beautiful,
Staring first into her bruised eyes,
And then down her rivers,
And she seemed to smile and acknowledge the way
I and every man was looking at her even as we
Shot beneath the waves
Like a great arrow which had passed harmlessly over
The enemy’s walls,
And quill ed quite harmlessly into the hapless mythology
Of the lady of the lake.