On Cley Hill

The rest is history, or Arthur Lee legend A lost summer country hollow, an Inn, The Green Man, cheering on a great British win, An Avalon that isn't there in the morning. A dream awoken to this light's cold day Where in spite of my shin-struck wounded need For thundering hooves in defence of these islands, Thundering hooves in defence of these islands, He doesn't come back. 'And he was never Called Arturus Rex, whoever he was And in some accounts not even Arthur And he was never mediaeval and never a king.' And who cares? Not Me. I stand on tis tumulus Of boyhood, layers of chalk written on clay, Craters and knolls, his monk-buried legend Scarred in my flesh, his doubt-defying Desperate defence of wonder (which Is what he was) an earth ditch like mine; His weapons, TOYS of tin and strapped wood and skin Like mine, on a May hill that may have been Badon And may have not, blades of peaceful grass troubled only And not just now - by rain and ghosts And a White Horse, God-large in memory, God-large still.