The armor is rusty,
the shield is cracked;
the helmet creaks,
the horse swaybacked.
But I am mounted,
my quivering lance
thrust forth.
We meet at noon
in the courts,
our battleground,
jousting, flailing,
dividing up the castle,
estate, the grounds,
the chattel.
I, once the flaxen-haired
buxom, favored wench,
now like so much
cattle,
seen beyond the fence.
Even Merlin
with his magic
cannot help us now.
No spells, no fairy dust,
no incantations left.
One last time
I cross the moat;
the drawbridge pulled,
the gates behind
shut tight.
No round table
reconciliations.
Camelot’s dream,
long gone, but
not forgot.
So much for
flashing steeds of white
and shining armored
knights.
No rescue here,
no respite, no reprieve.
King Arthur’s dead;
I’m not Queen Guinevere,
and you’re not
Sir Lancelot.
— Elaine Pedersen ©
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