Tristan And Isolt

Heather Dale

Who knows not the tragedy of Tristan and Isolt?
The fair-haired Cornish harper whose hands held steel 
and string?
And Ireland's greatest treasure, borne like Helen 
'cross the water
While the waves approaching bowed before her beauty?

All who've heard the telling know the blind and bitter 
Fates
Placed the cup of love's sweet poison to unconsenting 
lips
And as plank fell home to timber and the king beheld 
his lady
Carols rang within the church and seagulls screamed.

All the harpers laboured on their agonies of passion
Unfulfilled and ever straining like lodestones to the 
north.
But few will ever mention how the cold breath of the 
Northlands
Let them lie at last as one without deceit.

When Tristan could no longer bear the shame of guilty 
conscience,
He took ship to far Bretagne, half-hearted and bereft.
He cast aside his music, cut the strings which brought 
him joy,
And took solace in the fury of the field.

Praise grew up around him like the corn around a 
boulder
As the Cornishman did battle with demons in and out.
In singing sword and thunder, Tristan vainly sought 
distraction
Yet she whispered in the silence of the slain.

In the way of warriors rewarding noble heroes,
Fairest Blanchmaine of the Bretons was given for his 
wife.
But Blanchmaine knew no pleasure from her cold and 
grieving husband
For the marble face of memory was his bride.

In that time the country was beset with Eden's serpents
And the basest of all creatures can bring the highest 
low.
Two poisons coursed within him, and none could be his 
saviour
But the healing arts of Ireland and Isolt.

Wings of hope departed, struggling North against the 
tempest
With tender words entreating for mercy and for grace.
If his love no longer moved her, hoist the black into 
the rigging
But if white brought them together, he would wait.

Daylight creeping downward, Tristan's demons massed 
against him
And the words of his delusions brought hidden love to 
light,
While the woman he had married but to whom he'd given 
nothing
Sat her long and jealous vigil by his side.

Morning framed the answer walking lightly o'er the 
water.
Like Christ's own victory banner, it flew toward the 
shore.
It was white as angels' raiments, but when feebly he 
begged her,
Fairest Blanchemaine softly told him, "'Tis of night."

Who can say which venom took the soul from Tristan's 
body,
And the bells began their tolling as Isolt ran up the 
strand.
The wind grew slow and silent as she wept upon her 
lover,
And in gentleness it took her grief away.

Side by side they laid them with the earth their 
separation.
Even yet, they were divided by the morals of the world.
But their spirits spiralled upwards, Ireland's briar 
and Cornwall's rose,
And together at the last, they lay entwined.