The Lay of Princess Lune (I)

PROLOGUE (lines 1 - 40).

This is the first instalment of the lay; here are the other published instalments, in case you’re up to a different one:

(you are here)

II. THE PRIEST

III. THE ICY WOOD

IV. THE CASTLE

V. THE MADMAN

VI. THE MONSTER

FINALE

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Author’s Note

This is the first part of a gothic narrative poem about a lurking, tyrannical phantasm. I plan to publish the entire story in seven instalments — one every weekend (AEDT) from today, the 9th of March, until Easter Saturday.

If you are old enough, you might remember it.
If you are young enough, you have imagined it.
If you are wise enough, you may even believe it …

Kelso Abbey (2024).

I. PROLOGUE

A phantasy before my eyes
Grew fast with sleepless fangs and lies,
Unfolding like an ancient map
That told of treasures and a trap.

I knew a monster dwelt within
That broken castle, yonder, grim.
Supine and restless in its hearce;
Of old, it wandered, bold and fierce.

It felled the king who ruled that land,
And felled all those who took a stand.
It drank their blood and left their bones
Scattered through their streets and homes.
All those who lived became his thralls,
And served him in his stolen halls.
The realm endured a sunless age
Prolonged by endless thirst and rage.

It hung the royal daughter in
An iron cage rocked by the wind,
And in the night, it spread its wings
And flew to her for what blood brings;
The king's own daughter, held so high,
Grew deathly pale against the sky;
Curled up in an exhausted heap,
She was the moon, unchecked by sleep.
So with her royal blood, the stain
Held long onto his loveless reign,
And with his magic, he did fill
The sky beyond with clouds gone still.

This dark enchantment held that realm
And sleepless night did overwhelm;
The people of the castle wept;
The princess long the monster kept.

Indeed, it was the strangest thing,
The princess did not grow so dim,
But shone with an increasing glow
The monster's bites could never slow;
In that cold cage, she was the moon,
By some strong luck or holy boon.
For long she lay, rocked by the breeze,
And ceaseless prayed, 'Have mercy, please.'

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TO BE CONTINUED …

The breeze blew east, past woods and wells,
And found the sun and heard the bells
Of distant steeples in small towns
Where priests would praise in home-spun gowns.

A young knight-errant lingered there,
And stopped a priest with language fair
To ask where some old road did go,
Which wandered westwards through the snow [...]

Click here for the next instalment.

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