A Poem for Sir Gawain by Simon Armitage

Time now to rise, to strike out with a clenched heart
And no map but the view from the peak
Where the west wind plumes your cheeks,
Leads with its granite fists.
Days of rain, rain that permeates the bone
Personal rain, persecuting the soul.
Days when the promised lake
Is a dishwater pond
Run from a grey cloud onto a dead hill.
Eat what the rook or crow leaves on its plate,
Bed down where even the fox won’t sleep.
‘Til the way narrows and halts
And you wait in armor or anorak under the ridge
With a campfire tan and hedgerow hair
And a god looks down, silent
Stony-faced, bearded with living moss.
This is the place.
The journey over and the story told,
The yarn at the end of its long green thread.
Speak now, for all that you’re worth,
As the blade swoons in judgment
Over your pretty head.