Then thirteen ships came from Ireland to Wales

A splendid fleet, bearing an Irish King,

Noble in their rigging and billowed sails,

Their shields upturned with peaceful meaning.



This sea-king Moir came ashore seeking Bran

The Blessed King of Wales who welcomed him

And asked him what brought them to Albion

And its precious holy land of Cymry.



‘Most revered King, Gentle Giant,

I come to seek the hand of your sister

Whose beauty and chastity are renowned,

And that you may bond another brother’.



Then Bran took aside his sister Bronwen

And asked if she would take this adventurer

Who had chanced the wide grey sea unbeknown,

For island fellowship and love of her.



But she too soon the captive of this fleet

Accepted the warrior’s white gold ring,

Losing her gentle heart beyond retreat,

Gifted in love to Moir the pirate king.



But seldom do the peaceful bring horses -

And Evnissen, Bronwen’s broken sibling,

Saw treachery there, and he was jealous,

Wanting her but hating the saintly king.



Then this would-be incestuous betrayer

Skinned the mouth of each horse to their jaws

Showing no mercy in his hatred there

Blinding the best in fury for his cause.



Then Moir, heartbroken, cast aside his bride,

Angry to the bone at this vile mischance,

And vowing war he readied for the tide

Set to repay dishonour with vengeance.



When word of this came to Bran the Blessed

He was distraught that he should be betrayed,

That his beloved sister should be mocked,

His rule of peace and justice thus destroyed.



And Bran the holy king sought atonement

That Moir should forgive this dreadful slight,

Aside its perpetrator’s punishment,


Pledging his own claim to heavenly right -



Offering a sound horse for those maimed

A staff of silver as tall as a man

Fine plates of gold, and a cauldron, long famed,

That will restore the bodies of the slain.



Then all swore peace as the gods might behove

And Bronwen set aside her tears of loss

For tears of joy and vows of endless love

In token that these ills would fade and pass.



And after feasting the lovers took ship

Coming at last to Ireland and Moir’s keep

With Bronwen soon loved for her fellowship,

And her beauty, and her playing of the harp.



But some of the Irish could not forget

Their losses and their humiliation

And Bronwen became hated and disgraced

Her life demanded in reparation.



Then Moir not wishing to put her to worse,

Made Bronwen the court cook’s scullion

Bidding the butcher, as his killing curse,

To smack her ear with his cleaving iron.



But Bronwen who was pure as first-light snow

Charmed the castle birds which heard her sing

And taught a starling to speak so it could show

Bran a letter she had pinned to its wing.



Then Bran his gentleness and love despaired,

Conspired to conquer Ireland and heel Moir -

And a mighty armed fleet he best prepared

That thus the nations came to bitter war.



Of which so much is sung by the minstrels

Who tell of endless triumph and defeat -

And how the Irish opened a thousand hells

Feeding the sacred cauldron with their dead -



And how Evnissen staunched the warrior flow

By breaking apart the massive grail’s bands

But died in agony as he came to know

The fullest fury one’s own hell commands -



And how Bronwen died of a broken heart:

All hope for peace dying with her son Gwern,

Whose life unified what was torn apart,

The boy immolated by Evnissen -




And how they severed the head of King Bran

Burying it at the white mound in London,

To warn of civil strife and be the guardian

Of every peace the just might swear upon.

Every time I pass out into the light going north from the Terrace Tunnel
Gunning the car up to the 100k limit on the motorway
I am haunted by the memory of the death of 18-year old Natalia Austin
Whose body was flung headlong into the opposite lane:

‘What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?’

Natalia fell in with adults who were drug-addicted and limitlessly irresponsible
And was persuaded to ride pillion on a Harley Davidson
Having been given a brief lesson on leaning with the bike
By Dee McMahon’s girlfriend Monique.

‘For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!’

McMahon was nearly five times over the legal alcohol limit
The equivalent of having drunk up to 42 standard drinks -
The autopsy also found morphine and tramadol
In what was left of McMahon’s corpse.

‘That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd’

Hitting 140k on the bend out of the Tunnel
He smacked the bike several times against the concrete median strip
Shedding metal in showers of sparks
And ripping limbs away in showers of blood.

‘Who are these coming to the sacrifice?’

"We're trying to go forward and cherish the memory of a beautiful girl
Who had a bright future, and who was just too innocent and trusting -
You let your little girl go and you hope she's going to be looked after by adults.
She trusted them, and they've let her down miserably."

‘What little town by river or seashore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?’

It was thus in the time of siege and famine:
A poor farmer sold his little daughter
To the asrais and nixies of the mere
So that the harvest might not fail again.

Then the farm prospered and all were fed
So no more was thought of the bargain
Though the reeds at the water’s edge
Sang of the prize that was expected.

And Meggan, growing fair but also strong
Took to ploughing with her horse,
Coming on her sixteenth birthday
To till the rich silty fields by the lake.

It was springtime and fine weather
And she and her horse Meadowmane
Worked quietly from shore to headland
As the gulls followed the turned turf.

On a start, a milk-white charger appeared
Its golden mane and tail flashing in the sun
Its dappled flanks afire with rainbow flecks
Snorting and prancing in courtship and display.

‘I know you Brookenhorse’, said the girl
‘The mount of Jenny Greenteeth Grindlelow
Sent from the dark depths of the mere
To claim me as a prize for the tarn-hag’.

Then the enchanted stallion came up
And nuzzled Meadowmane on the cheek
Nipping the old cart horse on the neck
At which the Brookenhorse shape-shifted

And took up the plough collar and traces
Heaving the ploughshare and coulter
With such force that the task was soon done
And the meadow seared with perfect furrows.

At which the Brookenhorse bolted for the lake
Taking with it both the plough and its mistress -
And she trapped by the reins that she had wound
To the handles was dragged beneath the water.

‘Welcome my beauty’ said Mother Grindelow
‘You my drowned princess are my catch now
Take up your deathly pallor and sleeves of green
And sing with us amid the mere of midnight silver’

‘I have my prizes now - my temptress Morgwen Fey  -
And the sharp steels of the foreshare and coulter
With which to forge a sword of endless enmity -
The enchanted plough become the stuff of strife’.

But Meggan shunned the hell-bride and her watermaids
And dreamed of the bright spring meadow flowers
And the warm sun and scent of heaving Meadowmane -
Finding at last the Brookenhorse in its watery stall.

At which it flared its nostrils, reared and stamped,
Abject in its thrall to the monstrous Borrag Queen,
Now become once more an ancient broken steed
Mere knucker bones and hide, bleached by the depths.

But Meggan wept that it had lost its rainbow glimmer
And placed her arms around its neck in comfort
Reaching to her kirtle purse to find a scrap of bread
That she had kept to share with Meadowmane.

At which the Brookenhorse glowed fine and white again
Lustrous and resplendent in its strength and beauty
And she broke down the stall gate and freed the horse
Leaping to its back as it bolted for the sunlit sky

Seizing the sword of enmity now become destiny
That mystical Cut Steel – Cleft Evil wand Excalibur
Until at last they came to safety and the light of day
Where she became her maiden self with Meadowmane.

And her father threw his arms around her with joy
Lamenting only the loss of his much-loved plough
But handling with amazement the magic sword
That shone among the peaceful fields of plenty.

So in time a knight came, seeking justice and love
And found at last the sword beaten from the share
Taking it up reverently from the Lady of the Lake
Bringing her and her treasured milk-white foal to Camelot.

In olden days there lived a wife
Whose noble husband courted strife
He loved her little - just at night -
This knightly treatment wasn’t right.

He found her in the woodland wild
And took her for a wayward child
Making her his own for pity’s sake
While long regretting his mistake

Belittling her at every chance
Their love was lacking in romance
And when they came to Arthur’s court
He served her up in rags for sport.

But Queen Guinevere took pity
And dressed her in her finery
At which the husband fell for her
And took his way without deter.

At last grown slothful in his lust
He betrayed his knightly trust
And the lads of the Round Table
Questioned whether he was able

To sally forth on jousts or quests
Or polish up his chainmail vests -
And what is more said they made good
On any wants of knightlyhood.

At which he rode away with umbrage
Treating her as wayward baggage
Although he took her nonetheless
To keep the score on his contests.

He ordered her to ride ahead
And keep her tongue inside her head:
While he sought out each noble fight
She found a camp and cooked at night

With trolls and bandits on the way
She saw them first but could not say:
Distracting them she made them blink
And looking back gave knight-ward wink

But when the champion won the day
He sent her forward down the way
Driving chargers decked with *****
No words of thanks in line of duty.

Til in the forest depths a maiden cried
Beset by fire and to some ******* tied
A morsel for a dragon roast or fried
The fiery beasties’ shawarma undenied.

Then Enid much beguiled the monstrous worm
And calmed its embers with her nubile form -
While Geraint freed the nymphet from the stake
She shared her story with the horned snake.

At length she found her knight had upped and left
Leaving her beset, bamboozled and bereft
But then the dragon taken by her grief
Gave her the gold that stuck between its teeth.

So, she took the stolen armour that she held
And girded up with lance and sword in belt
Giving eager chase to nymph and errant knight
To teach him his behaviour wasn’t right.

She came upon her hubby in a glen
Enticing Elyse to a bowered den
He had fancied her since way back when -
He cut her bonds but tied them back again.

Then much in wrath our mounted maiden rode
Resplendent in her anger, brave and bold
And brought to joust Geraint the Oversold
But he took flight and fled the combat cold.

And Elyse was overcome with gratitude
For this gentlest of stranger’s hastilude
That he should save her from calamity
And never once assail her chastity.

‘Young Sir, my love is yours as you desire
I am a princess and my lands are yours
Come live with me and be my noble squire
And I will grant you what you may require’.

At which the champion laid her helm aside
And tossed the curls she could no longer hide:
‘I am no knight young beauteous maid
But just a woman that misfortune made’.

When Elyse saw such woe and courtly care
She loved the girl who stood so sadly there:
‘It matters not my lover and my life
You are my choice and I your loving wife’.

And then at last they came to rest at Camelot
Where Queen Guinevere reserved them a spot
At her table (which was like Arts’ non-square),
Where all were welcome to partake and share.

And they grew old in honour and renown
With songs of courtly love that still resound
For they had found their holy loving grail -
That gentlest of knights and her beloved girl.

And last was heard of Enid’s ex-Geraint
He was the fearsome dragon’s catamite -
And labour as he might to stir its blood
The slightest recognition was withstood.

It happened that the fight was lost
And she and her retinue took flight
Ferrying by night across the bay
To the island of the guarding light

Where in the small comfort
Of a deserted, half-ruined fort
Those who remained loyal
Made ready for their encirclement.

And as morning dawned, sails appeared
Seeking the promise of final vengeance
And she, taking counsel with her defenders,
Agreed it best to leave to avoid disgrace

Boarding a skiff brought full-sailed
To the wave-beaten broken walls
Of an ancient quay in shadow -
Breaking out into the crimson dawn.

And when those who loved her
Were overwhelmed and put to slaughter
Her enemies found her gone
With only her last pitiable treasures

Left for ransack and despoiling -
Though a servant boy, a beloved slave
Sought to save his life the while
By betraying the manner of her escape.

Then the winds fell quiet and the skiff
Became becalmed. At first sighted
And then hunted down by long ships,
The sea-hounds of their wronged lord,

Bearing down with their oarsmen
Chanting of her treachery and oath-breaking:
Of her poisoning of the cellar meads
At the treaty gathering for her betrothal.

She the long-limbed, wilful beauty,
Enchanter of the warder troops
Sent by her father to accompany her,
Unwilling to bend to the needs

Of dealings and the apportionment of lands,
She who took the gifts and dowry
And divided spoils among the conspirators
Promising the sacred ring to the boldest on her behalf.

Brought at last to the fastness keep
Of her dishonourable suitor and his father,
Her followers slaughtered or enslaved,
War now afoot across the wide lands,

She refused to kneel before the throne
And was cast down with violence
Summarily judged the instigator of evil
A harpy who had raised the flames of hatred.

At which the old king, at his son’s bequest
Asked whether there was anything to be said
And she in reply promised a song so wistful
And yet so wise it might save her life.

‘Sing then to those who you would ****
Those who may still die in battle at your behest’
Said the king:‘Let us hear the siren song
For you are surely now within our power’.

At which she rose upright to answer boldly:
‘Kinsmen and Foemen alike, I am no chattel
To be bought or sold, gifted or pledged,
To settle feuds or mark out or borders

And my song is only the song of freedom -
I was not the cause of your ****** skirmishes,
Your enmities and intransigence existed
Before I was bright-arrayed and brought in offering’.

Though my song condemns me, I save myself
For life is of little worth if lived beholden.

I dreamt and wondered on a distant land
While mystic witches cast a twilight spell
With oaths of runes and carven bones at hand
In deep reflection at the fateful well

From which the tidings from the depths unfold
A curse that any future life must fail
When those betraying honour see it sold
And stain of gold is left to tell the tale.

There are much better mortal gifts to gain
There is a prize my sacred self holds strong
A treasure that will grace an inner realm
To which the best of me may yet belong.

The die is cast as I affirm my right -
Safeguarding freedom in the fading light’.

You were so beautiful my own country
Your fields and fells the honest sun received
And under open skies the air was free
As all were equal and all bonds redeemed.

My place of birth you have grown sour and old
Uplifting hate to heart with evil lies
And now I find a touch that’s coarse and cold
With devilment in hard deceiving eyes.

No longer does the land I loved seem green:
Three scores and ten to ashen grey have turned
The sparkling summer’s days that once were seen
When truth glowed bright as lamps of justice burned.

For fear of which, I cannot leave unsaid
My dread thy beauty’s summer is forever dead.

Watching you, I felt chill winds of springtime blow
Among white cherry trees and purple sprays -
Saw the lost gardens amid the scents of long ago
Of the last lands whose lids are closed in final days.

Pressing flowers into the leaves and loneliness
Kneeling to the mud or delving for the sand
Quiet frames of countenance and loveliness
I longed to comfort you and take your hand

And catch your eyes and gaze at you my lost girl
In wonder at the years now left in beauty’s stead
And you would laugh and say ‘Kind Sir’ and twirl -
Tossing bemusedly your wise angelic head.

Only time divides our souls – and time is on our side
And those who went before will leave the window wide.

ANZAC CHUMS AND THEIR MUMS

In Oz the possum grinds on thorn and gum
Far too stretched to visit mum -
Things are hard outback of Bourke
And there’s no time for anything but work.

But Kiwi possums like to visit ma
With flowers for her crystal jar -
They’ll even take a shopping bag of buds
With some greens and beans and spuds.

In Oz the possum is protected
As indeed might be expected -
Beset by fires and drought and prickles
And parched out creeks that slim to trickles.

But Kiwi possums are heaven sent
To slurp and scoff to heart’s content -
When they dine they have the best
And not surprisingly are deemed a pest.

In Oz a treasure - in NZ an imported glitch
There are mixed opinions either side the Ditch –
Mum’s the word on making possums able
To visit home with veggies for the table.

BUCKLEY BOY


Caressing half-sounds
Stumbling your stories
Under star-snake glories
Round the flickered embers


Did silence shake you
And tear you apart
As desperate loss
Tracked endless plains?


Dying in your dreams
When the cord tightens
Did your execution
Proceed as seemed it must?


How many atrocities
Were buried in the sand
And laid aside
Then brought to hand?


Years without kindred
Did you lose control
Find communion dead
And cease expression


Traversing the empty spaces
In dark companion?
Did you long for traces
Of what was told?



In the waste and fever
Did regret ride high
Chaffing the leaver
Chiding the loser why


So many roads were tried
Through trackless wastes
Where stream beds lied
And haste led back?


Walking on the edge
Of no escape
Left on hillsides
By your last mistake


When the dark broke in
Was an icy flaw
The token endpoint
Holding a wider line?