There she sat, straight backed, serene,
on her way to Camelot.
Weary of her shadow world,
once she’d seen Sir Lancelot.
So many years she’d sat there sewing,
in her cold and barren tower.
Recording life around the river
stitching fabric hour by hour.
What had she done to be so cursed?
Not to love and laugh and live.
In her heart her passions rose
and she longed, her love to give.
Inhaling sweet scent of grass;
mesmerised by water’s flow.
For just one moment with her knight,
the rest of life, she would forgo.
Wrapped in her woven tapestry;
her every sense alive, alert.
Proud to defy the cruel curse.
she would suffer no more hurt.
Her life now part of history,
sung in songs of Camelot.
She never met the man she loved,
but gave her life for Lancelot.
This is the picture that inspired me.
This is the original poem.
pennyluker 
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