“. . . therefore all ye that be lovers call unto your remembrance the month of May, like as did Queen Guenever, for whom I make here a little mention, that while she lived she was a true lover, and therefore she had a good end.”
(1485) Thomas Malory, Le Morte d’Arthur

* * * * *

Oh Guinevere,
I love that you woke up that magnificent May morning
and knew the time had finally come
to let your heart lead you
and not your queenly head.

Oh Guinevere,
I love that you held your breath
while your ladies-in-waiting dressed you
and wove colourful spring flowers in your hair,
But then left them to titter
when you ran out still barefoot–
(though your feet barely touched
the cold stone steps
as you flew round and down the spiraled turret
and out the secret castle door).

Oh Guinevere,
I love that you hurried along the path
through the green and sun dappled woods
to meet your lusty knight,
and that your beautifully stitched yellow silk gown
trailed along behind you on the mossy ground.

Oh Guinevere,
I love that when you reached that hidden place,
you threw yourself down on your back
on the damp fertile ground
and turned your face up to the morning sun,
and that you felt your body sink into the earth
crushing the tiny bluebells beneath you.
And I love that you let him undress you
so you could feel his sweet kisses
on your neck and shoulders,
and his warm breath whisper
in the hollow between your breasts.

Oh Guinevere,
I love that you lifted your hips
to the sapphire blue sky
on that fateful day.
I love
that you let him love you–
come what may.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Image credit: © Elyse-Catherine Bisson

And then there is this: