Merely shaping favoured Guinevere
to Horsey’s Camelot-tales of womanhood:
no time to canter among the reeds
in rising heat of summer’s height,
seeking hides and spying birds.
When this bird side-saddles a feminine mount,
armoured in outsize lifejacket,
gently rocked by breezing mere…
a sailor rocks and lance-rows manhood,
charges across to gentler reeds and sun, beating sun
on golden hair, cheeks flushed with pregnancy.
Whinnied satisfaction, eight-months’ ripe like handkerchief
speared, labouring not a muscle in the midwife of a hull
to consummate eyes of love.
Golden fulfilment of Horsey Mere
rocking and rowing to a gallop
as the late sun cools
to skittish breeze, worrying foul-mood surface,
a mere hint of concern
whether oars could spur faster, fleeter,
slicing surf to stress swords’ homeward shore;
to moor along the creek of Horsey Windmill.
A picture postcard token scene
for tea or ice creams’ gentle drift
of muscles sheathed but wasted
like Lancelot’s gallantry.