Tintagel Bridge

As I walk along the wooden boards Flanked by firm railings, I wonder how they used to cross From mainland to castle, Back when the bridge was Stone and roughly-hewn wood. The waves crash upon the rocks below, Tide eddying into Merlin’s Cave. Did they risk wind and raging storm To get across with a message for the king? Did they shelter on the main land, Waiting for calmness to invite them in? Tintagel… the remains tell only a tiny, Practical part of the story. What of the myth, the rumours, the history? What of the dealings in the western outpost For trade and travellers from afar? We can never know the legend’s truth. The mystery draws Crowds to this centre With magical depths and history. I cross the sturdy bridge, Wanting more than quotidien reality To live on in the rocks beneath my feet. The romance of this mythical place Stirs my heart to feel A yearning, a longing, To become more than just A person, a visitor, a tourist- To be one with the myth. To dissolve my life of Petty daily needs and wants, To emerge, a warrior, a maiden, A minstrel, a foreign trader, Or a simple visitor to the Court of King Arthur.