In the flinty upland
of sheep & ravens
they dreamed
each the other’s vision: birds,
these flowers bursting
a thousand years back
tramped in the battle’s muck.
Forget the knights –
a fist on a field of azure,
his lady, her feet
on the chained swans, not able
to turn the stone cheek to his cheek & cry,
he would not, small
in his armour,
tender as mollusc,
stone in the cathedral.
Hitched her skirt
on his lancepoint, laid her down –
not first, last,
nor long remembered. Went,
bum, singer, a fool, the black
furious horseman, nothing worked out.
His death: full of briars,
a black sail a white sail he’s glimpsed
in the magpie’s jittery flying.
Little brother
she won’t ever come back now.
Get used to it.