It stays,
the tower a nipple of stone
where the round moon drinks.
Morgana enchants tonight.
Her passion, high as the wind,
spells over the Severn
where Merlin mutters,
his dream a trouble of lightning,
his loss, his need of the land.
Under the world, Morgana,
everything breathes, you told me,
but the mist came down;
I did not catch when ritual fell
to stone in the cloister,
those, too, long dropped.
The wind whines coldly now;
it cries on the Tor.
My centre gone,
rain lashes and stings
where only the street lights
pour through the dark to
echo the perfect moon.
