Below the sword she softly kneels,
heart pounding in her chest like peals
from church bells on high.
A sea fills her eyes –
she would cry here, revealed.
Her hand upon the pommel, there,
before her graceful King she swears
unto him all aid
while on his crusade,
serenade and declare.
Her voice will burst with song and tale
at his behest. She shall regale
to allies and foes
tales of the East, those
he has chose her to hail.
Accepting oath, he raises her
as honor great he does confer.
Slowly now she stands
more to serve her land,
his command sweet as myrrh.
2-7-11
A Poem in the Welsh Clogyrnach form for King Gryffith FitzWilliam