Every time an Arthur dies Bedivere
Throws the sword into the water
Where a hand reaches up,
Catches it and
brandishes it
Three times. A boat
Sails slowly towards shore
Crewed by three tall women
Except for the times one
Or another of the queens
Is occupied or ill or
Would rather not spend her day
Rowing to the Isle of Apples.
Those times one of the women
May be short, even stumpy
May, in fact, be Baba Yaga.
She makes a passable crone
Once she puts away her pipe
(And just where does she put it?
She has no pockets;
Better not to know, perhaps)
And as long as she doesn’t smile.
Matron is more difficult
And she’s an impossible maiden
Preening and being brazenly bashful
Fluttering her lashless eyelids
Still, she’s always available
And the contract requires
Three women and a boat
Every time an Arthur dies.
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