(no subject)

IN ALBION
In Albion the wind that cuts the shore
bone white, then riven by the sky and sea,
runs inward like the moonshod horse
lopping the grass upon old Dragon hill,
And when the sun comes up, it moves the land
around the stones, so honeymen may say;
Twisting the tale with open lip and hand
grown fat as sheep among the beanfields fed.
Albion's bard is wind on moor and wave,
And for her love, both George and Arthur bled
Who speak no more but tourney endlessly
From unknown barrow to old iron keep
And from Drakes drum no bidding beat shall come,
though many turn in an unquiet sleep