Saint Joseph’s :: Album :: Poetry

Lofty spires surrounded by trees.

Arthur’s Song

Riding over ridges
in Logres that summer
your bright hair blew
in the lark-filled air.

It was only later
as we watched
a dying sun bleed
over Camelot’s spires

I felt the year-end’s chill:
heard the soft beat
of muffled drums -
the weeping for a king.

Brian Butler

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