The New Arthurians

Morris walked the long French roads,
straight, poplar-spired, golden-landscaped,
in search of transcendence in stone.
At Amiens, Louviers, Evreux, Chartres
The memory-filling group went staring
Up at the surging lines, the weightless
Thrust and rise of the masoned buttress,
Aisles flamboyant or Norman arched
Transept fronts and mighty Gothic naves.
Pacing the quayside at Le Havre
Morris and Ned Burne-Jones
Pledged themselves to making art
Turning their backs on holy orders.

He knew already he was marked for her:
Guinevere: passionate, dazzling, austere,
A helper, a lover, a traitor,
A loyal companion, a faithless wife.
And love was all to Morris. Physical,
Sexual. He felt its energy beating
His heart, driving him onto a woman
Just as he’d walked with bleeding feet
In broken boots to see those spires,
So he worked without deflection,
Punching his head to oust corruption,
Towards a life espoused to the ideal.

She was a girl from the servant class
Rossetti had drawn. Tall, quiet and cool,
She glanced down at Morris’s humble gifts
As he gazed upwards to gauge her response,
Heart-intent on her motionless face
Her dark and remarkable beauty.
Money whispered, he knew his power
And everything was possible.
He made her a queen in flowing robes,
Crowned with flowers in plaited hair
In the ancient orchard amongst the daisies
Two babies cried and grew and toddled
While she neatly needled his designs
Claiming rest; was ill with nerves
When he stormed and raged she ignored him,
Sneering and hardly speaking.
Soft in silks she shunned his kisses
Lying in wait for the snake in the grass
Wanting the beast who was really a beast,
Longing to smash the mirror.