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This Sword and Spear seem Heaving Devil’s Weight – Sonnet Twenty-Three
This sword and spear seem heaving devil’s weight,
This armor, shards, that grate in every move.
Bleached silver white, the pennants’ wind-swept state,
Now tarnished grey and stained in bloody prove.
The kingly tow'rs and rounded table’s seat,
Long miles have rendered all but mind’s forget.
No courtly graces shown in battle’s heat,
No courtesy in pillage’ siege fire set.
When quietly alone, no Captain’s guise,
With only shades of cook stoves’ dwindled light,
A life appears, no soldiering's devise,
Where wife and cottage wait, not battle’s night.
In morning light, a sword once more my all,
I take the field or in its taking fall.
This armor, shards, that grate in every move.
Bleached silver white, the pennants’ wind-swept state,
Now tarnished grey and stained in bloody prove.
The kingly tow'rs and rounded table’s seat,
Long miles have rendered all but mind’s forget.
No courtly graces shown in battle’s heat,
No courtesy in pillage’ siege fire set.
When quietly alone, no Captain’s guise,
With only shades of cook stoves’ dwindled light,
A life appears, no soldiering's devise,
Where wife and cottage wait, not battle’s night.
In morning light, a sword once more my all,
I take the field or in its taking fall.
Published 23rd May 2019
| Edited 24th May 2019
Author's Note
some days - it's just the battle - because that's all there is...
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