I climbed the Tor at Glastonbury one sunny afternoon in spring,
to gaze across the willowed vale,
and sense the Magic of a King
called Arthur.

Did he exist? I cannot know; this legend, in my fair, green land.
Is Avalon beneath my feet?
Where sleeps the loyal fighting band
of Arthur?

If I, but had a looking glass enchanted by the Wizard's spell,
what would I see, when there I gazed?
Is Albion safe? What would I tell
to Arthur?

Would I recount the bright dreams young boys have about romantic war?
To ride the wind; to save the land;
to battle on the Saxon shore
with Arthur.

But, that is past; yet, legend tells; deep in a cave in Cheshire, fair;
A hundred Knights and Warriors sleep
with horse, and sword, and armour, there...
and Arthur.

The day will come, the legend says... when Albion, in her utmost need
awakens this enchanted band
Is saved by the Heroic deeds
of Arthur.

How stands the wind for Avalon? Is it just all romantic whim?
And was there ever Camelot?
Where does truth end, and Myth begin
for Arthur?

The bright-eyed Ladies; Gallant lovers; Chivalry; all just folklore?
I do hope not; but then, these days,
there are few heroes any more
for Arthur.

And yet; whilst there are dragons to be slain, and bright-eyed Ladies won;
perhaps, of Merlin's Magic,
a faint trace still sleeps in everyone
for Arthur.

I see no trace of Avalon below, across the willowed plain;
but, it is late; it's time to move.
I walk down to the fields again...
But wait!

A glitter in the grass; a Mirror?
No - an old beer can!
Perhaps, the legend touched my soul,
and I might be a wiser man
like Arthur.

The Summerlands of Avalon cradle soft, the Legend of
a tragedy of love betrayed; a broken heart... a sleighted love.
Woven all about a tragic tale... The Lady of Shalott;
the Maid of Astolat... Elaine, who died for love of Lancelot.
Her love, so sadly unrequited; fading from a broken heart,
she lay down on her barge beset with lilies... soon, away to start
all down the glassy, reedy river towards the spires of Camelot;
singing her last, soft lament... the tragic Lady of Shalott.

And it is said, her melody... her last sad breath... away, slipped soft
far above the towering spires to whence, the skylarks wheel aloft.
Alone, unloved... this sweet young hope... no more now, than a sad refrain;
the merest shadow of this love, so cherished by the fair Elaine.
Gently gathered in the folding arms of the soft, western breeze;
lovingly borne back to earth to rustle in the Willow trees.
The Whispering Winds of Astolat... an echo of the arrogance
of men in matters of the heart; for which, there can be no defence.

For it is said, that when some girl besotted by soft, honeyed words
whispered by some smooth seducer; does believe that she has heard
some promise of true love... and so, to give herself to him... agrees;
then come The Whispering Winds of Astolat, soft-rustling in the leaves.
Or, if some crass Lothario intent on making conquests, new
decides to bed some older, wedded lady for an hour or so,
preying on the flattery he thinks that his attentions bring...
around the eaves, The Whispering Winds ot Astolat will sadly sing.

Take heed, when you decide to dally for a while... some interlude
of sweet distraction;  just be sure the words you use, do not delude
the lady into thinking that your words mean something they do not...
or, you too may be unmasked by The Whispering Winds of Astolat.
And, when the moon is floating high, and you romance a lady fair;
remember then... a broken heart can never fully be repaired.
Remember then, the Legend of The Whispering Winds of Astolat;
be sure you do not waken in her... another Lady of Shalott.

I dreamed of You, again last night... this must be getting serious.
We seem to meet most every night, in some soft, sweet, Romantic tryst.
Last night, it was a Golden Island... not a soul there... only us;
a Golden Land... a Golden Goddess... how could Mortal man resist?

You took me gently by the hand, and led me to a secret glade,
sun-dappled; with Hibiscus blossom perfume wafting in the air;
and, languidly reposed upon a bed of soft, rose petals laid...
then, opening arms with feline grace, desired for me to join You, there.

Your honeyed skin... so velvet soft; Your eyes were filled with mystery.
I fed You cherries...plump, and succulent;
Your lips softly drew them in.
You trickled wine into your navel...smiling soft, and sensually...
inviting me to drink... to lap the Golden nectar from Your skin.

I bent to Your desires, Your needs... this sweetest game we now, would play...
That Bee is buzzing loudly...
****! ...
Alarm clock!...
and... You fade away.

It just isn't fair.
You know that you enchant me so... you always take my breath away
and, though it's just a flirting game; the rules... I struggle to obey.
The mind-games that we play are so unfair... the upper hand, you've gained,
you use your femininity covertly... subtly... so constrained.
Why do you do it?

It just isn't fair.
That faintly hinting look at me... head slightly down, your eyes inviting,
gazing up, through lowered lashes... so bewitching... so exciting.
And, again; the slightly tilted head... the offered throat, so white,
the glance, from corner of your eye... a promise of such sweet delight?

Why do you do it?It just isn't fair.
When you speak; your tone of voice... a touch too low... soft, and delighting.
Phrases full of double meanings; not suggestive... just enticing.
Words that may be full of promise... then, again.... perhaps, it's me,
just hoping that is what you meant... Addictive, cerebral ecstasy!
Why do you do it?

It just isn't fair.
Your subtle use of body language; so subliminal, one would think
it isn't there... and yet, there's something prodding at my Male instinct,
with which, as every Female knows... not over-gifted, is the Male;
I bravely try to read the signs... eternally condemned to fail.
Why do you do it?

It just isn't fair.
The Coup de Grace of all these things, is when you put the pressure on.
The slightly parted, moistened lips; you win... conclusion... so foregone.
A gentle touch... lean too far forward... just a glimpse of warm cleavage;
***** softly brushing arm..."Accidental" leverage?
Why do you do it?

It just isn't fair.
I really don't know why I play your games; you know I always lose
this mental play of love-making... for that, is what true flirting is.
You brighten up the tedium; the only danger I can see,
is that, one day, I may just fall in love with you... quite hopelessly.
Perhaps, that's why I let you do it.

I am the text that tip-toes gently down your screen late in the night,
soft rhyming of the longings, and the dreams we hold... those hopes, so bright.
Perhaps, to tug a heart-string... strike a chord... bring memories back to you,
a dream you may have had... may want to have... no-one, but you can know.

Anonymous in Cyber-font; I can be almost anything
that you would like me to be, for you;  whatever you may want... I'll bring
into your dreams... your friend... your lover; there is nothing I can't be
for you... a wild romance, perhaps? Some sweet and secret fantasy?

I may well be the Evening Star you wished on, when your heart was sad;
I may well be the whisper in the wind... perhaps, the one you had
imagined you had heard sometime... when you felt you were quite alone,
and no-one cared; come, touch my thoughts... entwine them with those of your own.

For I can weave a Grand Romance for you... just open up your mind
and let me come to you in dreams; who knows what magic, there... we'll find?
Come, fly with me into the night; to where... is really up to you;
shall I become some secret, longed-for lover for an hour or so?

Or, perhaps... re-light some old flame fondly held-close in your heart?
whatever you want... it is yours... because, here is the clever part...
You can abandon me so quickly...that's just one keystroke away;
or, cut and paste me to a file, to come again... another day.

For, I am always out there in the night...and you can come to me,
and share my thoughts and feelings... and my dreams, quite unconditionally;
and, when you feel sad, or lonely... then, in dreams, again we'll meet:
and when you've had enough of me...
you just press Alt... Control... Delete.

He gazed in quiet ponder at the empty page; what then... to say?
The Englishman sat pensively, as dusk soft-cloaked the fading day.
There was so much... so many words to her, he wanted to display;
The Lady from The Colonies... so close, and yet, so far away.

He watched the candle flame a'dancing, but his thoughts were far away;
still, she tip-toed through his heart with each day passing; come what may.
The merest brief encounter; but, the thought of her would always stay...
The Lady from The Colonies... so close, and yet, so far away.

The Englishman gazed, lost in thought; the candle softly burned away.
Upon the page before him, not a single word, as yet, did lay;
for, knowing of the circumstance, what then, to her, could he say?
The Lady from The Colonies... so close, and yet, so far away.

He wore a coat of Red; his rank, in Gold... all brazen, on display.
Mustered in to quell the Rebel Colonists without delay...
Her Kin...
and thus, the game of love, alas, was not theirs, here to play,
The Lady from The Colonies... The Redcoat from so far away.

For Independence was the cry; and any price, they then, would pay...
these Colonists of New England; to rid themselves, without delay,
the impositions of Fat George; his taxes, they would now gainsay...
The Lady from The Colonies watched this, and wondered in dismay...

Would this lead to Revolution? Who would take the prize away?
This Englishman she fleeting met, and flirted with, that summer day?
Who touched a place deep in her heart; such feelings she could not allay;
The Lady from The Colonies... how could she choose, and not betray?

Her brothers, three... were Patriots; preparing then, to march away
to Boston, for, to trounce the Redcoats... throw them out in disarray;
but, there too, was the Englishman... his orders, ready to obey...
Mustered on the thin strand below Bunker Hill that bright June day.

The Redcoats charged Breed’s Hill... the Patriots gave fire, without delay.
The Englishman was struck firm by a musket ball, all flying stray.
His bright Red coat grew redder yet, as in the summer grass he lay...
he could feel no pain... but, he knew his life soon, would slip away.

And, as he watched the sky, all summer blue, slow fade to misty grey...
he pondered on what might have been, had she not been so far away;
but then...
somewhere... sometime... somehow,  his fading wish mahap, would stay...
The Lady from The Colonies might meet with him...
another day.

I wish that I could write a poem... words that would intrigue your heart;
no trite clichés... like 'Moon' and 'June'...
but, where on earth then, do I start?
The words I prospect from the heart... a soft, seductive rhapsody,
on paper... just don't read that way, although I weave them carefully.

I wish that I could craft some verse to tug the heartstrings every time;
smooth and silky... sweet perfection; flawless meter... perfect rhyme.
But as I rummage round all the romantic bric-a-brac inside...
and thoughts come tumbling out, and change to words; it cannot be denied...

they whisper down the page... not making sense... refusing to comply
with all the rules real poets follow; very strange... I wonder why?
Perhaps, I'm not a real poet... bereft of creativity...
perhaps, it is all froth and whimsy that I weave... not poetry.

But then, the rigid, classical approach is not what I seek, here;
the Cinquains and the Quatrains... bound with rules by which they must adhere.
I cannot pigeon-hole the thoughts, the dreams... that just is not the way
the hopeless, lost romantic, works...
at least, not this one... not today.

The trouble is; the heart-thoughts,and the mind-thoughts seem to disagree,
the heart says, "This is what I feel... yes, this is what she means to me."
The mind-thoughts say... "No, that's too flowery... far too smooth and syrupy"...
What the hell... I'll listen to my heart...
those thoughts won't mislead me.

****! I've dropped the thread... forgot the chain of thought... the plot, mislaid;
all this ******-twaddle snuffed out one more bright hope...
I'm afraid
tonight is not the night... perhaps, tomorrow I can make a start
on a pretty little poem, that might just
intrigue your heart.