The Chronicles Of Albion

This is the first part of an epic poem I am working on I call The Chronicles of Albion, and it concerns the awakening of King Arthur and how the Black Dragon that controls the Wasteland of present Britain is defeated.

This is the first part and concerns the awakening of Arthur ;

The Chronicles of Albion.

A single blood drop falls to earth,
From a tine of the sacred stag,
Scarlet stains the cruel snow,
The sacred hart is dead, evil rules.

The slaughter of the White Hart,
Is the crime that awakens the sleeper,
Vengeance is the Hunters Horn,
That blasts the sunless wasteland.

The first febrile ray of dawn, purple hued,
Arises empyreal from the glimmering east,
On golden wings afire, blazing bright,
That with sudden uncanny aim,
Pierces the slouching stygian gloom,
That lingers low upon the solstice morn,

Flashing fast as an arrow,
Fired from a mighty bow,
Wielded by harsh and vengeful hands ,
It flows aflame, coruscating,
Over hill and vale, forest and fell,
Winter cloaked in winnowing white,
The wolf bite of a hoar frost hard,
Settled deep within earths dark marrow,
Slathered by a screaming blizzard ,
Gripping beasts of storm and snow,
Tear at the sacred rock, a shadowed cave,
Upon the stricken Western face,
Of Lundy set amidst a sea of ice,
Where frozen waves crash in silence,
Upon the cracked and ice rimed rock,
And burning penetrates the dark veil,
That sighing surrenders to the blazing brand,
Enters the hand hewn catacomb,
Then alights afire upon that regal rock,
Where lies Arthur, the one true King,
Secure within Avalon’s stone sepulchre,
Surrounded by ragged stalagmites,
That sparkle with the ice of aeons,
His noble form still enclosed within,
A mighty suit of adamantine armour,
As hard as the scars of sorrows,
That mark his pale and lifeless skin,
Borne beneath the ruptured metal,
Of a King and Nation torn apart by civil war,
Hands clasped in prayer still,
The promise of eternal rebirth,
Whose crimson petals time cannot fade,
As red as the blood which once ran,
From his rented spear pierced side,
Dead but deathless, living but lifeless,
A seed long dormant awaiting Spring,
Seeking the sacred hour, now returning,
When the divine cycle begins again.
The aureate dart of flashing fire finds its mark,
And strikes the pommel of the sword Caliban,
That in its scabbard rests upon Arthur’s hip,
A ruby gem the size of an wrens egg,
Carved into the shape of a mystic heart,
Is set upon the mystic weapons stag horn hilt
Sending forth a myriad sparks that fly,
Exploding into a thousand shimmering shards,
That illume the caves interior with flames,
Ancient energies awaken, delicate
As a newborn babies pulse,
A tremor runs through the land,
The rocky spine of Albion shakes,
White cliffs fall in an avalanche of rock,
Ley lines long dormant come alive,
Mountains tremble and rivers quicken,
A high tide drowns the sandy shore, foaming red
Clocks stop, engines stall, street lights flicker,
Wheels within wheels cease to turn,
The city ceases its turmoil for a second,
As a butchers blade ceases cutting meat,
For the shepherd in the field is first to see,
Freedoms glory shining in his eyes,
As a pillar of fire entering heaven,
Lifting from the ice clagged channel,
Rainbows rising to sunder the darkness,
Infant children laying in their cribs,
Laugh with joy at the newly lifting light,
Slaves cease from their constant toil,
Chains sudden light upon their limbs,
Eyes bright at the sign of liberty and hope,
An eagle screams upon Snowdons peak,
It wings clatter as it flees the killers throne,
As a white hares watches it wheel away,
No more the harrying hunt will it fear,
Skylarks ascend as one and sing,
Rising from fields of broken stems,
Praising its passing with a simple hymn,
Flowers in the meadow, heads still low,
In the slow ebb of evenings flow,
Unfurl to sup its precious lucence,
Delighting in in its simple treasure,
As in a cell of bible black sorrows,
A priest shuts the book and weeps,
The smiling soldiers sheaths their swords,
No more to war will they need to go,
The printing presses hiss and splutter,
Their snarls of lies cease to conspire,
No more will freedom be burnt,
Upon treasons funeral pyres,
Serpents in their finery slither away,
The palace guards desert the gilded gates,
Of Parliament, King and Bishops,
As evil books begin to burn,
All those whose words of war,
Are writ with words of blood,
Consume their creatures that infect,
The young with the sepsis of sins,
Whose forked tongues delight in lies,
And whose hard hearts feast on hate,
As a flower grows from a grave,
Its petals pale as winter snow,
Finds its root in bones buried far below,
And unfurls upon the sacred earth,
Pollen ripe it groans anew with life
Its name is hope, the promise of liberty.

The dragon who is Arthur’s oldest foe,
Who has stalked Man since time began,
That wears the many masks of god and state,

Evolving new forms of hate aeon after aeon,
Screams with a fear, it has never felt before,
Its feels its power on the wane,
The red rock runs as blood along a vein,
Molten streams blistering black,

Fire venting from its gaping jaws,
Fear transformed into impotent fury,
For the burning books that define its power,
And form the myriad halls of its hells,
Are now blackened ashes in the wind,
As all around the scales of doom fall,
From the eyes of men who finally see,
The foul beast that lies beneath,
The empty prisons that they call home,
Tear free from its baleful illusions,
Sought by fools fed on gold and wine,
Whose deeds eternal condemn them,
Abasing themselves with rising terror,
Before the black dragon upon its throne,
That laughs like thunder at their crawling,
For they fear the judgement drawing near,
And seek sanctuary in it stinking pits,
The reeking ulcers upon its skin,
Wherein lies the promise of evil,
Lies and luxuries proffered for fools,
Laying bloody offerings before the beast,
Their unborn children, liberty and honour,
Their country and their kin,
Surrender themselves in abject obedience,
Kissing the bloody rough stone idols,
Of Marx and Smith, Science and Religion,
That seethe with locust swarms of lies,
As the ghosts of all their savage crimes,
Gather in a silent mass, fingers pointing,
To crowd their guilty minds.
The fallen wyrm gathers its flocks,
Spilling like maggots from a festering wound,
From all four corners of the country,
The lost legions of its wasteland,
The black mass of Albions mourning,
Marching in time to the machines that lead them,
Bound by choice at psychic birth,
The dragon, scorched and blind,
Feculent, faceless and finite,
Bloated by its crimes, its flesh rotted,
Its essence corrupt and profane,
Tightens its grasp, talons tautening,
Keeping its slaves in mental chains,
Of atoms, fear and orthodoxy,
Books of law, religion, science and materialism,
Are vomited faster from its foul red maw,
Rotting eggs gushed forth in reeking green
Pulsing obscene in their pale shells,
one for every one of us, bestial parasites,
A fetish for every fool to desire,
A false idol in our own cave, self delusions
Squirming putrid in their fragile chrysalis,
Awaiting the moment when to feast,
Upon the blood of those who love them most,
The acolytes of blind devotion,
Writhing vines of thorn appear and embrace the fools,
Slicing into their willing flesh, rivulets run,
Blood to feed the spawn, tiny mouths thirsting,
Lap malign with long ulcered tongues,
Upon the septic flesh of the fallen,
Their razor teeth stripping to the bare bone,
Stealing beauty from their bodies,
And etching woe and villainy upon their brows,
That mark of shame and treason,
That no crown or honourable wig can hide,
It is the mark of all that serve the beast,
Fears the freedom of the imagination,
The infinite vistas of the eternal soul,
That man alone now possesses,
Once wisdom tricked it from his lips,
And blew its breathe into Man,
To raise him high above all beasts,

fear settled as a withering frost,

in the Black Dragons cold heart.