King of yore, your forgot to wake
when evil rose, drifted to English shore.
Now your work is in tatters, spirit’s fled
as old realm crumbles, cliff into surf.
Unity, peace lie like concepts dead,
bleakness over land: a corpse’s mirth.
Avalon mists: dark memories make,
poor faint, needy die, justice appears no more.
Draw excalibur, summon your knights,
feed the pauper and heal the land,
remind this people how to make right
wicked rulers; bright light with mighty band.
King of yore, arise and awake
disturb injustice, snuff it at its core.
Sonnet 24 of 100
On Thursday, a friend of mine challenged me to write a poem based on the new statue of King Arthur at Tintagel. The above sonnet is my response.