Tristan And Isolt

Who knows not the tragedy of Tristan and Isolt?

The fair-haired Cornish harper whose hands held steel

and string?

And Ireland's greatest treasure, borne like Helen

'cross the water

While the waves approaching bowed before her beauty?

All who've heard the telling know the blind and bitter

Fates

Placed the cup of love's sweet poison to unconsenting

lips

And as plank fell home to timber and the king beheld

his lady

Carols rang within the church and seagulls screamed.

All the harpers laboured on their agonies of passion

Unfulfilled and ever straining like lodestones to the

north.

But few will ever mention how the cold breath of the

Northlands

Let them lie at last as one without deceit.

When Tristan could no longer bear the shame of guilty

conscience,

He took ship to far Bretagne, half-hearted and bereft.

He cast aside his music, cut the strings which brought

him joy,

And took solace in the fury of the field.

Praise grew up around him like the corn around a

boulder

As the Cornishman did battle with demons in and out.

In singing sword and thunder, Tristan vainly sought

distraction

Yet she whispered in the silence of the slain.

In the way of warriors rewarding noble heroes,

Fairest Blanchmaine of the Bretons was given for his

wife.

But Blanchmaine knew no pleasure from her cold and

grieving husband

For the marble face of memory was his bride.

In that time the country was beset with Eden's serpents

And the basest of all creatures can bring the highest

low.

Two poisons coursed within him, and none could be his

saviour

But the healing arts of Ireland and Isolt.

Wings of hope departed, struggling North against the

tempest

With tender words entreating for mercy and for grace.

If his love no longer moved her, hoist the black into

the rigging

But if white brought them together, he would wait.

Daylight creeping downward, Tristan's demons massed

against him

And the words of his delusions brought hidden love to

light,

While the woman he had married but to whom he'd given

nothing

Sat her long and jealous vigil by his side.

Morning framed the answer walking lightly o'er the

water.

Like Christ's own victory banner, it flew toward the

shore.

It was white as angels' raiments, but when feebly he

begged her,

Fairest Blanchemaine softly told him, "'Tis of night."

Who can say which venom took the soul from Tristan's

body,

And the bells began their tolling as Isolt ran up the

strand.

The wind grew slow and silent as she wept upon her

lover,

And in gentleness it took her grief away.

Side by side they laid them with the earth their

separation.

Even yet, they were divided by the morals of the world.

But their spirits spiralled upwards, Ireland's briar

and Cornwall's rose,

And together at the last, they lay entwined.