Centred by fields and trees
is a pyre of oak and ash
and littered ‘round their solid base
the lilies of the field.

Resting in loving arms, in blessed arms lies,
with flowing snow upon his breast
hands folded across his chest
the king of a long-forgotten woods.

Fighting arms now gently lie
wielding sword one last time
upon his breast still and cold
and upon his brow a famed crown.

There lies a woodland king
the last of his kind
here lies a woodland king
burning on a pyre.