The Knights of Night
Beneath the Cornish blue, grey sea,
The bells of Lyonesse swing free,
Rocked in the bosom of the deep,
The knights of Lyonesse still sleep.
On a summer night when the wind was still,
And the blood red sun sank beneath a hill,
As I walked on the dark, soft sands below,
I heard the bells pealing, muffled and low.
I knew well the stories the locals tell,
That Arthur lies there under Mordred’s spell.
That his knights sleep there all guarding their king,
They rise and ride out when those church bells ring.
Then out from the sea, through the foaming tide,
I saw a great party of horse men ride,
Shields, lances with pennons and armour bright,
They rode at a gallop into the night.
They rode up the beach and off into the night,
Clanking, stamping and snorting, a marvellous sight,
But though there were forty or more in that band,
No one single hoof print was left in the sand
Where did they come from and where did they ride?
When did they return again under the tide?
Can we always believe what our eyes say they see?
What is fact? What is fiction? What is deep mystery?