In Morte d' Arthur, the knights turned their horses
loose, to graze at will.

David Jones, dreaming 'Vexilla Regis',
Painted the souls of trees
On lumpish hills, such as spiral
My birthplace. Beyond the foremost,
Tallest and roughest Tree
Run the wild horses.
 
Dreamer myself,
I know one is Sir Bedivere's horse.
I was once Sir Bedivere's squire.

How we sagged, after we lost Arthur!
Wandering purposeless,
Countryside stiff with a winter
Like glass fur. So scarce the forage …
Sir, in his blackest hour,
...