Stirring Echoes of Exile's Thunder

By Lloyd Michael Lohr

oh Merlin,
sleeping in the fire,
you should not have ignored the raven's caw.

Children of Nimue tread into the seasons of bleakness,
only fear residing upon the tip of silent tongues,
for deep within the ancient loam of earth,
the Winter King lies barren and cold,
and his lord, the Israelite Mithra,
will not resurrect him from his tomb,
for the unforgiving iron hand of Rome's influence,
long ago ceased to be.

Oh Son of Pendragon,
hear banishment's laughter in the haunting echoes of your dreams,
for all that you were is no more,
and soon the omens of famine and bloodshed,
place their stones upon this land,
as the Jute and Saxon dogs of war,
once more begin to howl and moan.

For these days the Pagan tribes of Mug and the Picts raid this realm,
a land once rich with grain, wisdom and gold,
but now scarred remnants are the only embers that remain,
for upon the Winter King's sun-bleached bones,
the Autumn winds steal away the legend,
and the name of Arthur is lost among the Bards.

Oh Merlin,
as the echoes of exile's thunder roar across this ancient land,
your magic is gone, stolen by the daughter of the Celts,
and as Maeve ascends to the rowan leaf-covered throne,
ancient voices and cauldron tales begin to eddy in earth's womb,
and swirling shadows of rebellion slowly stir,
deep within the faerie ring.

A secret lies in the certain knowledge,
that indigo is the color of a raven's soul,
this fact, Macha knows all too well,
and as a shroud weaver's disclosure of mythic secrets,
reveals the fate of the Britons,
we weep for the restless ghosts of Camlann.

Oh Son of Pendragon,
hear banishment's laughter in the haunting echoes of your dreams,
for all that you were is no more,
and soon the omens of famine and bloodshed,
place their stones upon this land,
as the Jute and Saxon dogs of war,
once more begin to howl and moan.

Oh Merlin,
sleeping in the fire,
no longer can you act upon their cries for mercy,
for the hour of Mab has caught up with you,
and all that was Avalon falls to dust,
under the spell of a harsh moon,

oh Merlin,
sleeping in the fire,
you should not have ignored the raven's caw.

And as the son of Mordred stands upon the dust of Tintagel,
he cannot help but wonder what might have been.

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