137: King Arthur

Grey-haired, weary-eyed, bent, he stands on the street and tells a tale—a tale of an aerial dancer entwined in her silks, turning above the heads of a crowd, illuminated by a single gleam of light—and he equates her to the swaying birch at the end of the street, tall, strong, quick to red and quick to gold, and he lets his gaze rest on the café above the bookshop across the street as his mind wanders to schooldays in gentle springs when he filled the windows with stories and gestures and another boy grinned and pointed out the beats he had missed and their voices danced through the steam of teas and coffees and mingled with the chocolate cakes and croissants and freshly cut apples and it was their respite and their home and their kingdom and they could laugh and sing and forget the homework they had promised to do.

In those days, he was young and he was king and he knew nothing of invading armies and floods and droughts and peasant revolts.

Winding his tale of the aerial dancer, he knows better. When the silks rip under her feet, he is ready to catch her.

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Written by: Katrine Hjulstad

Instagram: @katrinehjulstad

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Publisher's note: Please note that all poetry published with Eudaemonia Records has been seen by our editors, and that the editors have suggested revisions where they see fit, but we believe that it is ultimately the writer's decision to accept or reject any suggestions and take no responsibility for which suggestions they accept or reject.