Cai's Lament.

A Confounded letter again of Bardic histories and loss. Part 1 in The Matter of Britain.

 

Calling clean, returning a light for like, falls the water sprayed slow for time. Calling the crystal wave crashed around a centre. Falling the light within green pillared halls. Falling the hoof on thundering turf. Hurled the great spear, blood touched, screaming.

Calls the lover across the stream, for the light, for the lingering touch. As the blood red sunrise warrior left his place standing.

Where have you been, my own? What did you see? Did you finally fall? Was the loved voice hidden? Was the music so soft only you could hear as you died in roars of thunder.

She waited for ever, so soft, child hidden, bracken clothed as the clouds thundered. As the voice cried lost... come to me, come to me. She was the flight of silver across a darkened sky. She hated the silent cries of the dead beyond touch and beyond haunting. She, only she, felt the depth emptying her mind of blood, of feathers, of wishes, of life.

Cries the land, only rolled, only run, only fought for longing. Cried the widows such as she, for loss, for loved once but never again.

Cries the falling water, cliff edged and strong. Calls the ancient growing, old beyond the ancestor. Taking the wishing tree and the halls of empty holding. Shields of disgrace, tarnished. Evidence only the swords of an empty battle that was lost to both.

Pay the Eagle legions for this threefold sacrifice. Tempt the Gods of wind, tree and stream. They listen to the spirits of mountain, land and bog. Only listen, then sing your lament.

Tie his strong arms corded under the blood, under the silvered curved knife. Under the flint moon with its sickle pointing. Use the magic of stone to hold fast this once and future king. Come again, come to me. Come only to me.

Watch the falling water and the man with his antlered crown. Watch the green and parting trees. Stand the round mounds of old beyond old. Catch the star lingering after dawn.

Hide the wood and salt from these invaders of a lost and tainted land. Let the bards sing only of past glory and worlds of empty promise. Leave the lost to their longship raiding. Rejoice that you live only for the sacrifice of he who was born to rule for a harvest year and no more. Come to me.... Come to me....

Author's Note

Cai was Arthur's foster brother. The male sacrifice was King for a year before suffering gladly the threefold death. The Antlered Celtic God was Cerunnos.The photograph is mine and called Flight of Loss.

Reviews

[r. f. jordan]

"Where have you been, my own? What did you see? Did you finally fall? Was the loved voice hidden? Was the music so soft only you could hear as you died in roars of thunder."

this is more to comment in the second read i've taken of this sweet piece. i sit in a thunderstorm reading these images and am moved by the craft with which they were imagined. you have depth in talent, and it shows.

[emmajoy]

Whenever i read your work i'm wrapped in another time and place, not specifically by the words but the emotions you somehow instill with your strong but subtle phrasing. The characters are here, the one longingly calling across space to the other; the fairly short sentence are near mesmerising, 'Hear me, hear me.. ''

You raise the myth into another and your own making: touching, dramatic yet with near desperation. ' She was the flight of silver across a darkened sky. She hated the silent cries of the dead beyond touch and beyond haunting. She, only she, felt the depth emptying her mind of blood, of feathers, of wishes, of life'

[The Rock And Roll Cowbo..]

I think you were a poet in past lives as well cause your work is very seasoned and has an old world feel.

[Phibby Venable]

any age you write about becomes photographic and beautiful. your
words are majestic.

[MOON]

What a beautiful way to make history come alive. Such an informative poetic write.

[Zeek4]

What a wonderful piece. I'm no expert, but I would call that and ode, and a fine one to boot.

[EMF]

OK. You're good. Lets just take that one for granted. Not only is this a facinating work of story telling, it's a bloody good poem too. Your language dances while your ideas fire off left right and centre. Superb write and just as good a read

[SM Davis]

Oh that were he to bear the weight of tears torn from just soul...would the cries muffled sound be? Vos mots tombent sur les yeux douloureux... pas plus que la douleur des larmes jamais pleuré. Tu me manque.

[patricia]

A druidic masterpiece voiced in a forest heart of oak. Loved it.