Everywhere were bluebells
Chiming their soft blue chimes
Into the sunny sweep of dandelions
Burning the hedgerows gold.
We were lost in this paradise
Of quiet roads and shimmering yellow fields,
Until the rough green grass
Of a set-aside meadow, swept with daisies,
Took us into a bright masquerade
Of an older England than any
We had thought to see that day.
Where Lancelot and Guinevere walked again,
Where Arthur’s sword once more pierced the ground,
Where everywhere the eye found
Circlets of flowers resting on willing heads,
And Guinevere flirted
And Lancelot laughed
And coconut shells clapped in the sound
Of the hooves of invisible horses,
Forcing the pagan priest to swing
A bracelet of flowers from his fag brown fingers,
Waiting to join two thistle down merry-makers together,
To live in misery or joy for ever and ever.
And Joker roamed the players on their stage,
Grinning at his eternal role
Of bringing death and wicked trouble
To anyone still alive and kicking,
To anyone unaware of Joker stalking
This blithe and sunny day,
Skin green as a little nut tree
Bearing thorns sharp as daggers and sweet nuts
With hard shells to crack teeth and heads,
Backs and faces, turn bright eyes into pools of sorrow.
©2021 Gwen Grant.