Guinevere walked through the morning gardens
where primroses partied in slanting light.
A liquidity of songbirds pardoned
the slinkingly slow departure of night
This walking around in meadows at dawn,
this dripping about in ethereal dreams,
was wearing thin on her, losing its charm
she'd give it all up for Starbucks and jeans.
She'd buried Arthur at Avalon Tor,
that squalid town with its hill of hippies:
already they'd opened souvenir stores,
tarot talkers, spell sellers and chippies.
In a parallel world through a wormhole in timeshe'd drink gin and tonic. With Lancelot and lime.
First published in Three Drops From A Cauldron 4/10/2015