Picture From The Past
“I am come home,” said the knight,
as he rode slow down the lane,
more to himself
than the farmer with his cart,
he passed by on a bend,
or the workers in the fields,
who greeted him as returning lord,
hero, high friend.
As amazed spirits, they shone in the sun.
He rode on, towards his castle on the hill.
White and gold, his banner fluttered
on the west tower roof.
The mirror vanished from the air.
The picture from the past was gone.
Larks rose from the empty fields
the tractors ploughed.
The castle still there,
though long a ruin.
Only its broken towers
and fallen outer walls remain.