Two young lovers in wakeful bed,
Love-talking after they were wed,
His arm a pillow for her head,
Remembered words, poetry said,
Old tales retold of Camelot.
Learned the artistic jewel
Years before in grammar school;
Unwinding reflection's spool
Their lifetimes, year by year, went by,
Four babies came, sweet lullabies,
Sometimes laughter, sometimes sad cries;
Were they just two lone passers by
Lost on the way to Camelot?
I, their last child, was not aware
Of private bedroom life shared;
He whispering in her hair
Of life in fair Shalott.
My father died, he slipped away,
She lingered, telling love's sweet ways.
Impromptu, she relates one day
Of blissful nights hearing him say
Sleepy accounts of Camelot.
There are two narrow graveyard plots,
Gray stone marked with lover's knot;
Someday time will give no thought
Of them or of Shalott.
I, myself, am much older grown,
Allotted years are nearly flown;
When I lie down beneath the loam
Will I hear his soft spoken tones
Repeat the dream of Camelot?
Near by me in that next tight tomb,
Close-walled, speaking in the gloom,
Echoes reaching as he croons
The Lady of Shalott?
August 17, 2014