Over the drowned heraldic land
lies the sea as would a shield.
Here the pointed hills were once
a hundred rampant unicorns.
Here Tristram grew on a vert field.
From that field the battlements
rose up that held his infancy.
Above the turrets one autumn day
a falcon dropped uneasily,
seeing its kingdom tilt and slide,
and far below the horsemen reel,
like toys that crack and rust apart,
clothed in metal head to heel.
Tristram spoke on that last day:
‘Lover to love as earth to sky.’
Down in the valley tongues of foam
rebuked: ‘Alone, men die.’
‘And yet a woman waits for me.
Summer encircles Iseult’s head.’
Forward the field of azure moved.
‘It was only a dream,’ he said.