They’ve divided the chaos with

blood and steel

imagining a promised land

that spans the breadth

of mighty Logres,

the Kingdom of Angels,

and we take one more breath

before we reach our peak,

gathered as we are,

in this solemn hall.

We choose to hear nothing

of the dreaded creak of aged bones

the slip and snap of worn-out muscles,

lives shuddering in unison

in the somber silence.

He stands there, proud,

his knights mighty,

glorious, noble and true.

Arthur glances at me,

the question

lingering unspoken

in this hallowed chamber.

Mighty are his knights

and true,

Yet none so true

as to take this seat.

Siege Perilous

they named me,

for none may take me

save for the best knight

in all the world.

Should the unworthy

attempt it, they will burn,

and thus I cast confusion

on their faith.

For if they are the best

and the truest of all,

why then,

is no one worthy?

As ever, whenever they look at me

they look at him,

brave Lancelot,

mighty of arm

and strong of heart,

yet he never looks at me.

I am his shame,

the acknowledgement

that he could be greater,

but for

the chiding rattle of chains

that holds his heart captive.

For best must also be

the pure of spirit,

and his soul

is shackled yet with

a thousand betrayals:

the weakness of a covetous love,

a lust born from

souls weakened with time.

The dusk of life

settles on them,

brown, gold and black

yielding to grey,

yet they feel it,

when they look at me,

that their story

is not yet complete.

Our distinguished Round Table

a circle pure,

is the anvil

where ideals are beaten

into truth,

with the hammer, the sword

and the axe by

the heroes of the age.

Long has the day been

and the night that led to

such tales.

But no sun rises in the east.

The horizon we see

does not belong to us

but to the enemies of our forbearance,

whilst we cling to the sanctimony

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of our beliefs, whispered again

and again in silence

as we seal our fallen in halls of stone.

Empty seats are soon filled,

yet never me.

They worshipped gods of war

by slaying their brothers,

cold steel bursting through warm bodies,

and they made blood holy,

yet spilled it with impunity.

Could purity remain?

Or is my purpose

to scorch and to maim,

to be the executioner

of the frailties of man?

The hall goes dark,

every candle and sconce

extinguished

and we see it,

floating above us

at the center of the table:

A vision of gold,

a goblet, most holy,

dripping blood

upon our Table.

Where the blood falls,

it scorches and cracks.

We hear the voices of angels

promising a quest

to crown Logres

as the flower of

honour and purity:

The Holy Grail

beckons, drawing us

like a lodestone,

to cure the Fisher King.

The vision fades,

and they all fall silent.

The doors of Camelot burst open

and light enters the hall once more,

and in he strides,

young, golden-haired

blue-eyed, confident in purpose.

Immediately,

they look at Lancelot

for he is the spitting image of him

in his younger days,

yet there is a purity

to this younger knight

that holds them all spellbound.

To their shock,

and mine

he takes his seat,

taking me,

before anyone

can say a word.

Strength has now come again,

if there is sickness, he is the cure,

his might is as the strength of ten,

Because his soul is pure.

Unrivalled now, he stands apart

from a world that is yet dark at heart:

Galahad, glory-bound

now takes his place

at Arthur's court.

The Siege Perilous is filled

Our Company is complete,

and tears fill

our great king's eyes.

His work is done,

and his heart fills

at last, even as it breaks.

For this is their resplendence,

the final eminence

of their mighty fellowship.

“We shall never be greater

than we are now.

We shall never be more

than this moment.

If only Merlin were

here to see this day.”

Yet his mentor departed

long ago,

sealed in stone and water,

himself a prisoner

of love.

The Holy Grail calls

the flower of knighthood,

and they all see

the truth reflected

in young Galahad's eyes:

One last quest for eternal honour,

a final task, befitting legends

ere darkness falls,

the last and greatest quest

of the mighty Round Table

at the height of its power

when all is golden and good.

Our greatest glory...

and the beginning of the end.