The wee fairy folk looked on from the woodland,
speaking in whispers none other could hear.
Their voices led Morgaine straight to the Ring Stones;
the circle of life, wherein, all things were clear.

Five years were spent retracing her footsteps,
the teachings of Avalon, she now must recall.
Each day, there was left, a gift near the Ring Stones,
by fairies who longed for their Queen to stand tall.

When Uriens died, Morgaine took her leave,
and journeyed to where seemed the edge of the world.
Her heart beating fiercely, she parted the mist,
watching as Avalon, before her unfurled.

The bells chimed out at Glastenbury Abby.
She thought of her mother and wanted to cry.
One served the Goddess and one the Jew King.
With a heavy heart, Morgaine passed its shores by.

War had begun its great sweep through the land,
while a dreadful homecoming awaited Morgaine.
The High Seat of Avalon was soon to be hers,
the Priestess, Vivian, had been recently slain.

An angry exchange occurred their last meeting.
Morgaine was lost in the throes of regret.
The people of Avalon grieved, seeking guidance.
Rebuild, they would together, but never forget.

Morgaine had finally made peace with her failings,
when a voice and a vision gnawed from within.
She rode hard toward Camelot, choking on fear,
and there found reward for her ultimate sin.

Gwydion spewed forth a lifetime of anger,
the son of her own flesh and Camelot's King.
He charged at his father with hatred and malice,
screaming, then knowing Excalibur's sting.

Morgaine cried outright as never before,
the truth of this deed taking shape in her head.
Arthur was dying by Gwydion's blade,
alas, their dear son, he already was dead.

Arthur’s passing marked the end of an era,
though Camelot’s legend was never to fade.
He and his son were buried in Avalon,
lovingly honored as celtic harps played.

From that day forward, the Lady Morgaine,
cared little to venture from Avalon’s shore.
Her visits were mainly to Glastenbury Abby,
where she found contentment as never before.