A Good Knight’s End
_an arbelast, a fist of woven chain_
Sir Godwyn lay there, dying
in a field of bloodied clover,
his battered shield a testament
of his undying love.
Around his neck, her silken cloth,
the white of it now freshly stained,
& breastplate punctured by a dozen bolts,
yet in his passion, beyond pain.
She’d watched the coming storm,
the sway of clouds & colors passing
from lavender to indigo
& prayed he would survive.
‘Tis said she appealed to High Court
that her lover might be spared,
for the crossbow is far more
than a match for mail.
She even turned to Merlin,
bargaining her body for a night
& in exchange, a spell of fortune
for the safety of her love.
She failed, but sent him all she had,
a company of ghosts, prisoners in kind
to share his fate: blood on leather,
a rain of shadows on his grave.
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