By Juleigh Howard-Hobson AOR

They lay close to what we were told to know

Of where they would be. Each knight, each horse, all

Asleep within the hollow hill. Although

We were told the old tales, told to recall

Them, record them, remember them, no one

Thought we would think them true. But we did. We

Believed and found the soul of England spun

Within the fairy tales.  The imagery

Of our lore led us right to them like thread

Laid out upon a path. And there they were:

Our king, our knights, our soul itself. Not dead,

But waiting. Ever, always, waiting here

For the right dawn. Meanwhile they sleep on still.

Grey evening falls lightly upon the hill.