we walked to Northumberland’s Avalon
to the ruins of the Joyous Garde
a rival to Mallory’s Bamburgh
a poem now battered and scarred

once dressed in redolent beauty
had lost all Arthurian sheen
now a bare husk on the headland
poignant still, but with a different mien

we walked past wind hardened sheep
by the rocks that they call Cushat Stiel
up the slope to a heritage gatehouse
to discover if ruins still feel

we were not alone in our wandering
the fields were crowded that day
with fathers, mothers,
sisters, brothers
uncles, aunts,
friends and lovers
babes in arms
dogs wearing muzzles
searching for a quality of time
amid work-life balance insecurity

I gazed upon the ruins
this once great poem in stone
that declared its faith in King Arthur
that Earl Thomas was Arthur come home

but time rips our words and worlds apart
like a wild north-east autumn sea
beats and bruises them
pommels and pummels them
drenches and drowns them
wears them down until
only vestiges are left

amidst autumns of wistful rambles
by the rocks they call Cushat Stiel
with aunts and uncles,
fathers, mothers
dogs on leads
and missing lovers