Arthur

somewhere beyond the western mist
the sea receives the fading light
and birds return to ancient trees
as though the years had not gone by

the evening gathers in the field
hedgerows seem to whisper a name
and remember in falling dark
the kingdom growing in that place

what is a king when none remain 
to attest that once he was here
or is it we who keep him still
by giving silence form and name

perhaps only king of never was
who exists where we cannot keep
the grass grows over all we were
and dreams return us to the deep