A witch accosted me on the street
of the neo-pagan hippie town of pink
and purple bead and candle shops
reminiscent of New Hope in the sixties.
She grabbed my hand and told me,
“You have suffered greatly.
But all will be well.”
I was shaken to have been so chosen,
seen so accurately,
until she asked for money. 

Up at the abbey, my friend and I took pictures
of a bright sky framed by ruined arches
and marveled at Guinevere’s grave.
Everyone exited the gift shop at once,
posing on the steps to view Prince Charles,
his skin a youthful pink, suit well pressed. 
He smiled up at us and asked,
“How’s trade today?” before moving on. 

We took the bus up the mountain
to the Tor. 

I’d wanted to make this trip 
for so long but I’d come too late.
I was too broken now to climb
steep stone steps without a handrail.

How long I’d waited to meet 
Arthur, Nimue, Merlin.
Too late.

While my companion ascended,
I sat in the meadow among green apple trees.
The wind stirred the grass. 
Small white butterflies dipped low.
Bees hummed.
A border collie danced in the orchard. 
But I longed to climb.

Too late. 

Then I remembered that this orchard 
was once a lake, the hill behind me Avalon,
that this New Yorker had a chance
to sit in peace in a summer-sweet meadow,
that I had indeed encountered a prince and a witch.
Surely, surely all would be well.