White sails on the pale horizon,
Slide away into the curling mist,
Like desolate ghosts of some faint sorrow,
Returning to kingdoms that have no end.
A little girl sits on the rocky shore,
Atop a heap of silt and sand,
Waving to the luminous vessels,
Unaware their crew is all but damned.
The child bows her head in wonder,
Until the ships have left her mortal sight,
Assured that someday she must follow them,
On rout to Avalon where Arthur sleeps.
Upon the flagship armed for battle,
A lookout strains his failing gaze,
On that green and wholesome isle,
He knows he will never see again.
The rumor of conflict rises about him,
Amongst the clanking of sharpened blades,
Forged to kill a foreign tyrant,
And lay low England’s enemies.
Red sails on a dead horizon,
Slip into a feral storm,
Like Satin’s angels set loose from hell’s fire,
Receding into the unknown.
Interesting that the words imbue my mind with as much a visual as the actual painting. Great stuff, beautiful.