THE ROSE AND THE VINE (Tristan and Isolde)

By the Celtic Sea, in the sanctuary of the forest,
Just beyond the shore of the islet, the figure
Of an Irish princess now Queen of Cornwall,
Isolde, stands motionless, while her thoughts
Trace the shadows with regrets and meanders
Through haunted moments of heartache...
The extravagance of her tears now estranged
She succumbs to despair and melancholia.
There is little comfort in reading love letters
Encrypted with passion, intricately scripted
When they’ve become silent epitaphs of love
As the sea’s spray washes the words away!
These clandestine missives eagerly delivered
To her bowery by her trusted maid, the wax
Impression of Tristan’s gold signet emblazonry
Melting under the heat of her trembling fingers.
Isolde could find no solace in words once
Embolden with desire, now corpses etched
On withered parchments by Tristan’s hand.
Her silent reverie echoes through the treetops
While the surf beyond thunders and repeats
Her anguished sobs once entombed in her
Heart now a lingering apathy in her soul.

The scent of the sea wafts through the air…
And the sound of rustling silk over fallen leaves
Is predatory in the serenity of the forest
And chortles a reminder of her royalty,
Her obligation and the untenable position
Of being wed to a murderer and King!
Yet she is hopelessly in love with the King’s
Nephew, knight and heir to his own kingdom!
Forlornly she walks… her ermine and velvet
Cloak gathering the remnants of broken shells.
Oh God! She is sick from love…ravished by it!
Tristan’s scent, the taste of his lips upon
Her tongue, a remembered touch… Oh God!
She’d swoon if she recalled more of him.
Isolde intones the ancient Celtic magic
Into the night’s ear as the moon listens:
“Awake, O North wind and come you South
Dispatch my beloved, Tristan of Lyonesse!
Make haste and return him to me quickly!
Let my heart’s desire flee away from Brittany
And return him to my waiting arms I beg thee!”
Reluctantly Isolde turns back toward Tyntagel
Castle and King Mark, husband and cuckold!

Another day passes and the sea is empty of
Tristan’s standard furling atop the ship’s mast.
Lifting her arms heavenward the Queen implores:
“Let me see his countenance, I must hear
His voice and taste his kisses once again!
Suddenly a call from a pace behind her…tis
Her maid running hurriedly along the path,
A familiar white square in her hand…a letter!
Isolde breaks the seal, her eyes greedy for news.
What escapes from her is not joy, but a wrenching
Scream that is taken up on invisible wings
And carried through eons of terrible desolation.
Tristan lies grievously wounded, delirious, dying!
The letter falls from her fingers the wind takes
It up and sends the news over the cliff’s edge.
Turning as she ran, her command is heard and obeyed:
“Rouse the captain and crew, make ready to sail!”