Slick slanting drops of water blew

from dripping leaves and branches dank.

The sun, a silver disc did glint

but never warmed the misty air.

And through the dark and dripping wood,

A knight in rusty armor came.

Astride a horse of mighty size,

it’s fetlocks lank and mired with mud.

Beneath an ancient oak they stopped.

Some shelter gleaned from wind and rain.

And wiping water from his brow,

like statues horse and man stood still.

But look, the helmet is a crown.

It’s jewels gleam in misty wet

and by his side the battle sword

hangs in a scabbard richly made.

Why would a King ride all alone?

What is his quest, what urgent need

would drive him from a castle keep,

to stand untended in the rain?

A horseshoe rings on river rock.

The charger pricks his ears to point.

The King stock still in saddle stares

but only stillness greets his ears.

Through misty murk the stranger comes.

His armor black, his helmet too.

A battle-ax, large at his waist;

with raindrops beading on the blade.

Hail mighty King, the Black knight calls.

Hail valiant Knight the King replies.

Where would you choose to do this thing?

Right here in this rain sodden glade.

They set their spurs and charged across

this place where grasses all a dew,

stood droopy headed, bowed with drops,

that glinted in the feeble sun.

And as they came a wave of mist,

set moving by the horses chests,

rolled across the grassy glade

to mingle in it’s mired midst.

Each drew his weapon, battle tried

and whooping yells to chill the blood,

charged headlong for the fateful clash,

that must occur where chargers meet.

The shriek of sword on battle-ax

meeting in a shower of sparks,

that buzz the air like angry wasps

to hiss to silence in the grass.

And as they pass their weapons flew,

torn from their grasp by weight of stroke.

Spinning in the failing sun

and striking stand in soaking sod.

So back they come, another pass.

No weapons now, just brains and brawn,

to meet again where wave meets wave

and grapple armored arms and legs.

And where they fell, a mighty splash,

they roll and pound the other man,

to try and gain the upper hand

and pin the foe beneath their weight.

When all at once a sound is heard.

A chuckle then a belly laugh.

They roared together in the rain

and clasp each other in a hug.

Oh brother mine, what fun we had,

when like this moment, life was ours.

Till suddenly our youthful bouts,

turned into real and battles sour.

David Garlick, Victoria, August, 1991