The Hand that rocks

The silver bough,

The earthworn plough

That lounges idly by the wayside of this green and once pleasant land

Shivers, in the sunshine, neglected

The rotting fruit

Lie fine art brut.

A landscape fit for Covent garden colouring pave

Down come the hordes,

on crops they gorge

And bloated fly away to different climes.

Whilst leaving golden yesterdays on times forgotten forge.

And so with lame lament

And Lionheart bent,

The land of Avalon lies broken,

Bleeding on the parched earths path.

A sacrifice upon the altar of human greed.


 ©L. M. Roberts 2020


The Last Sleep of Arthur in Avalon by Edward Burne Jones

I wrote this poem whilst basking in Lockdown heaven in the summer of discontent, and envisaging our next summer, our crops and our lack of workers.

Cheerful soul aren’t I😟


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