TRISTAN AND ISOLDE

Dwarfed by towering crags, by over powering headlands,
the human figures diminish, 
marginal scribbles on an illuminated missal
sketched by an idle scribe.

They are glimpsed in snatches of moonlight emerging from cloud,
by firelight in tapestried halls, 
by torchlight and hastily-snuffed candle.
The robust sun never warms their bones.

They sail between granite kingdoms over Celtic seas,
Tossed by storms under star-crossed skies.
Their voices are lost in the lamenting of gulls,
The surge of breaking waves.

Romance - always romance. Parted lovers, the death of queens;
betrayal, sorcery, revenge.
A black sail haunts the ominous coast;
legend whispers their names.

Destiny lures them through unchartered waters,
drives on their desperate quests,
as an indifferent moon lures the incessant tides
that lap the long-lost shores of Lyonesse.

FAY MARSHALL
'South' Poetry magazine, issue 40, Autumn 2009


GETTING THE MESSAGE

It did not as scheduled, as portrayed 
by Giotto, Caravaggio or Rosetti.
No whiff of sanctity, no scent of lilies
hung in the room and there were no fine robes,
no extravagant feathers.

A girl in a plain shift was going about
her ordinary day when suddenly
a man came in abruptly, someone unknown
confronted her - staring with alien eyes.
Her throat went dry, the Roman soldiery
made free with girls. She knew that vagrants came
across the hills. Quickly she backed away
sensing a trap. Outside the mid-day street
lay dusty and deserted in the sun.

His bulk filled up the doorway - she well knew
that all she had of worth would be at stake -
no maidenhead, no man, no marriage moon.
And so she played for time, shedding salt tears, 
pleading her youth but still prepared to make 
rash promises to edge him throught the door
leaving her unmolested. Did she think
a promise under duress would be void 
who had agreed a 'rent-a-womb' with a God?

It could have been done better had he told her
that though the future would not dry her eyes
she'd weep the crystal tears that icons weep
and wear a robe the colour of the sky 
for all eternity.

FINOLA HOLIDAY
'South' Poetry Magazine, issue 40, Autumn 2009


CERNE ABBAS - THE MAKEOVER

Once they climbed into his arms
those anxious aproned women
who toiled up the steep sward
in the solstice moon
to lie in the wishing grass
that greened his thighs.

Now his body language
hints at low libido.
He leans uncertainly against the hill
bowing out after long centuries
of goodwill, of largesse.

Some call it neglect,
other abuse. The Parish Council
meets in closed session - calls out
the Friends of this and that, the Boy Scouts, 
the Hill Walkers, Green Men,
even the church choir - the date set
they hire a score of shovels
order a ton of chalk, buy sandwiches
and cider - turn the lot loose
to wrest him out of the hillside,
slash the nettles from his eyebrows, 
cut the bindweed from his manhood
give him back his club.

But will anyone ever again, 
come longing to him
in the fecund nights of spring?


FINOLA HOLIDAY
'South' Magazine, issue 40, Autumn 2009