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.