Union of the Crowns

Bounding down Pyrenean slopes
through Ebro’s meted  valley
stopping only to lap its rushing sweetness
and whet his thirst for lasting streams,
Fernando, soon the King of Aragon,
passed through father’s fields of bleating
with roasted ewe upon his breath,
but hungry for more

than fields or ports of trade alone
could amply fill.

And there awaited Isabel--
with chaliced wine, spilled out
from Castile’s bounteous fountains,
left long upon her lips--

holding back aristocratic presumption
by the bold bouquet
wielded perfectly in arm's curving crevice.
And she, adorned in flowing gown of conquest,
anticipated his arrival.

Both in majestic, hurried vesture

and fervent search of heart

could now commit in nuptial

their love, their promise, their quest
at Vivero’s provincial mansion

while Mozarabic chant rang out

to remnant strains of Visogothic strings. 

But to the ancient music merry,

they danced a future step.

Fernando, valiant, then led the fray
of Reconquista’s resolution
and snatched the final drops of Spanish clay
from muddied hands of Moors
who had splattered it upon Mediterranean drums
with centuries’ haunted beats.
And every rhythm of drum and war
foretold of father’s death
and son’s deserved ascent.

And battle-weary ones were strengthened
as Isabel,
flagged with golds and reds
in righteous stance,
prayed in fighting’s face, where bloody scourge
would scatter heathen hearts
and fertilize the fields
of Christendom’s forever expanse.

Iberian peninsula, now marriage bed,
would spread dominion
to distant hills past vast salted seas

where untasted waters flowed fresh

and fruits of many labors
could be devoured by descendants
of Spain’s now fostered singularity.