By Juleigh Howard-Hobson AOR
They lay close to what we were told to know
Of where they would be. Each knight, each horse, all
Asleep within the hollow hill. Although
We were told the old tales, told to recall
Them, record them, remember them, no one
Thought we would think them true. But we did. We
Believed and found the soul of England spun
Within the fairy tales. The imagery
Of our lore led us right to them like thread
Laid out upon a path. And there they were:
Our king, our knights, our soul itself. Not dead,
But waiting. Ever, always, waiting here
For the right dawn. Meanwhile they sleep on still.
Grey evening falls lightly upon the hill.
Category: Poetry & Prose