Dedicated to the memory of Osis, King of Ealdormere
O summer king, the boat is burning in that lesser lake,
Your pilgrims' charm reduced once more to ash.

The embers burning lower with the wine
Light bitter anthems whispered in the chill.

A barrow sunken somewhere has its proof.
The crown and sword and coins retainers lie.


O summer king, newly crowned and then unhorsed,
How cruel the summer's wind upon the lake!

There is nothing left upon our pebbled shores,
Nothing, sings the Keeper in his cell

But the morning's fragile winter smile
And the wild birds calling above the empty grass.


Aoife