quest

 

TheEternal Quest

             

As callow fledglings

Soundly schooled were we

In mythic tales of chivalry -

How bold white steeds

Did onward firmly heft

Heroic knights

Of puissant palatine.

 

So  each did bear
  The blade and lance

And bouclier to turn aside

The vehement blows bestowed
By many a mighty arm.

His gilded meshèd mail

 Announced to all 

By vivid rayed reflection

The coming of a warrior primed.

 

As well we know,

These constant knights
In hallowed crusade blooded,

Slew infidel and such as smirched

The rood and sepulchre of He

The Saviour of each fragile soul.




Then homeward wrought

Their painful passage slow

With cicatrice yet barely closed, 

With wound agape

And shattered limb ybounden.

 

Their respite brief
  Was full
of subtle musings
Deep and long

That groomed each mind
For quest superior –

To locate that which to the shores

Of Albion’s Isle was brought

And hid secure and deep

Nigh Glastonbury’s stately Tor,

Or by the thorn
On Wearyall Hill
Or sunk full deep

In chalybeate well,

The holy heart of Avalon.


And so they sought

The jewellèd prize

And dreamed
Of golden rim

Once kissed

By Sacred Lip
And gentle mouths

Of devotees eleven,

Yet barred to him
Who dared
betray
The Master
Of that saintly brood.


 

Yea speak I of the grail and cup,

Foundation of that novel Testament

And every celebrated mass

By which each priest and monk
A prosp'rous living found

E'en to our present age.

 

This chalice myth,
The cup, le Sangréal

Is but a dream
In Christian minds.

Aye, ethereal it dwells
But not confined

To hermitage, nor town
Nor capital
of mighty state,
Nor yet
In continent unbounded.

 

This cup is not of aurum bright

Nor yet with gem encrusted.

It stayed unseen
So darkly uterine

Ere space and time befell.
Hence it must remain,   

Of rich deep texture soft
And warm withal

While infinite in its allotment,
As we who sought did truly find
.

A cup?  Nay, ‘tis no demitasse

Nor cauldron wide of mouth

Nor yet a hollow hill

Where dwell the faery throng.

'Tis sweet Gwynfa Gorawen  -
  Strange Paradise of Rapture

That echoes with the love

And joy of we

Her nurslings true and

Devotees perpetual.



Dedicated to She, the Extruder of All.


copyright © Gareth Pengwerin 10th March 2015
All rights reserved


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