Cardenio’s bones lie in an unmarked grave
beyond the bonny sallie willow grove
beside the shallow pool, none bend to grieve
no bannered tomb, only a hallowed groove.
Cardenio’s dreams lie in a fallen snarl
of lost intentions, fallow, slow as snail
the filings of his plan, through those who kneel
or fill their glass with drams to toast his name.
Cardenio’s play is lies and bones of dreams
procession of the willing, swelled with drums
with all the words unmarked, the swill, the drones
all hollow pomp of lost forgotten dramas.
For leaves will turn and fall as heads grow grey
Hell holds no harrow now, and dreams decay.
5th February 2013
