Camelot
Days
I
think even now of
a circle of friends
I
knew when I came from
the farm;
Men
of energy, character,
passion and wit,
Quick
with grace and strength
and charm.
I
remember the round-tabled
sessions we spent:
Ribald
jests, bawdy tunes,
Gallo Rhine,
And
how, drunk unto wisdom
the late hours bent
To
the altar of Discourse
divine.
We
raved on about mystical
mysteries and cause,
Over
poetry, science and
Zen;
Raved
of women and winning
them only because
They
were there and we
had the yen.
But
of course we knew
few of them, not what
to do with them
Save
but to wave good-bye
But,
brag-full of palaver,
each walking cadaver
Was
ever proclaimed, “alive!”
And
we fished all the
waters of Camelot,
Arrant
in our second-hand
cars;
Conquered
Bluegills and Crappies,
Bass, Pike and the
lot
Coming
home we trolled the
bars.
But
the quarry was slippery,
the catch all but
nil,
And
we ended up cant-her-ring
back
To
a sink full of fish
that we cleaned with
a will,
And
an empty-armed snore
in the sack.
And
we duck-hunted Dicky,
Pat, Warren and I
We
knew each reedy pot-hole
by heart.
Took
fat Mallards and Redheads
and Widgeon and Scaup
And
the Teal that shot
by us like darts.
So
in autumn we quested
the sloughs, fields
and hills;
Spring
and Summer the lakes
and the streams;
And
in winter we boasted
of catches and kills
Learned
from Merlin and painted
dreams.
So
full-charged was the
realm to us then,
so full gay,
So
full-fragrant with
perfume divine,
That
the thought of such
joy on this gray-tempeled
day
Fills
the heart with bitter
wine.
Not
that life has been
gall to us, most of
us thrive,
(Being
wedded to beautiful
spies),
We
are hunters and fishers
and wanderers still,
But
ever with more wistful
eyes.
They
have sifted away,
all those Camelot
days,
And
with them strength
beauty and youth;
The
circle has broken;
We’ve gone separate
ways
On
our quest for the
Chalice of truth.
Now
the spaces between
us gape wider with
years;
Our
visions are not the
same:
Each
battles his own den
of dragons and fears
And
the weight of the
world’s great
pain.
Still,
the lost Gleam returns
now and then to an
eye
When
we talk of young renegade
ways.
As
we sit by the embers
and sigh long sighs--
Dreaming
still of those Camelot
Days.
(12/28/82)
G.Pinkney
