Birds of Rhiannon (2001)
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Tide is always low, so gales turnkelp and wrack to snake skins.
Shadow gulls on sand-ribsare a vanishing calligraphy,
and high above, their mimics looplike voiceless acolytes,
whose song died when our kinggave his throat to the blade.
East means nothing now,nor west, no happenstance
of rock can bear the name of Britainnow that he lies broken.
O Bran, land and sea lay wasteto one another, sky can only light itself,
O head, rocked to sleep,nuzzled and fed like a baby,
O warlord, O wean, gentle inan arms's crook, lulled by old songs
Michael Symmons Roberts
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