Lake of Sighs
All around the lake there lie
rippling fields of wheat and rye;
gone the island – stood so high
an island they called Camelot.
Above the lake, a skylark flies,
ever singing as it climbs –
a song that speaks of days gone by
and the distant land of Camelot.
If truth it be, no man can know
but speak, it does, of two who’d go
to an island in a boat they’d row –
to the pine-clad hills of Camelot.
From buttercups that grew around
he fashioned her a golden crown,
then, each to each, made solemn vow
as the sun rose high on Camelot.
And there they’d lie in meadows, green
and drift to sleep to share a dream
that he was king and she, his queen
of the fabled land of Camelot.
The couple slumbered long that day,
as evening fell they sped away;
storm clouds loomed above the lake
as they bade farewell to Camelot.
Thunder brewed in threatening skies;
a violent squall – their boat capsized,
and boy and girl were lost from sight
as the sun went down on Camelot.
The wizard, Merlin, there did dwell,
who promised he would break the spell
and end the curse, so stories tell,
the devil wrought on Camelot.
The water in the lake grew still;
cut through the mist, as darkness fell,
the mournful tolling of a bell
wafting down from Camelot.
Sunlight pierced a silken shroud –
dawn’s first light melts morning cloud,
a pair of swans rise, heaven-bound,
from the lake that cradled Camelot.
And as they flew the waters climbed,
consuming Merlin’s castle, high,
who, from a hilltop said goodbye
to the magic, once was Camelot.