The old knight, full of lines and a paunch that has returned

despite many battles of valour and graces won, esteem

held high in his land for him

and even those he has taken prisoner full of praise for his honour

in their captivity, this old knight finds a corner

in which to put his hands over his face and allows a tear to fall.

 

A world in which has changed since peace was sought and found,

a peace in which he retired his suit of armour, sure that the fight

was no longer necessary but not realising that his

greatest battle lay ahead of him in dark days of

old age and caged neglect of all he protected,

his loved one now a shadow in the dusk.

 

The Knight, still able to turn heads from the fair maidens

that wander by with casual exuberance will hunt

with his sword in the darkness for his own Grendel,

his own begot and time forgot battle that should have been

long since dismissed from this world

but was allowed to fester in the rotting remains of the land.

 

The sword, long since hung in pride of place above the mantle

hovers above the Knights head, the reflection of long

abandoned gestures, deeds and battles,

sometimes against his own army, but always bowed to with

sincerity and absolute respect afterwards ,

is stained with the blood he must now draw.

 

The villagers he long had the power to protect,

to sit and laugh amongst, to strike down but with absolute

love and to mourn the passing of Time with, hurry to his

side but cannot help the ailing knight in his

time of hurt, they don’t know how to defend the man

whose honour has been besmirched by the traitor from within.

 

The quiet corner he has taken refuge in for a short while,

the peace of Heaven that he will delay for all that he is worth,

is now shrugged off, his sword trembles in his hand,

but his worst valiant effort is worth a thousand of his foes best

laid attacks, for in this village he swore to protect,

none dare swing the sword with as much anger as him.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015