Thinking About King Arthur

Deep, in the memory,
lies the trace of a word.
Persisting through the Centuries,
it hangs at memory’s very edge,
almost indistinct.

Now and again it will
rise into Consciousness,
then the tale is retold,
as the teller chooses.

Picked at, pulled, this way and that,
lies, truths, trailing it, source Unknown…
the tale endures.
At the core of it, a gene-hidden word,
the name of a man.

A man whose essence
was so strong,
embedded deep in race memory,
he cannot be forgotten.
His stature grows with each new telling,
a Myth, perhaps.

Still the world lingers,
the shadow trace.
Waiting to be recalled
as the need arises.