avens
lack
resh
and clear the day. The field with its barrier dividing the ground is ready,
the lists are in their place. Coloured blazoned banners unfurl limply
in the gentle early breeze and a hawk fluttering high on the wing awaits
its unsuspecting prey.
quire and Page, scurry
to and fro, making sure of last minute adjustments to mail, strap, buckle,
stirrup and reign. Now soothing the sturdy, war horse charger for his
high mannered master, he dreams of future days, future glory, when he
might sit in the high backed saddle as a knight, worthy of a blushing,
young lady's favour, her scented sleeve, a token gift upon his lance.
eralds in rich Samite
tabards, strutting like Persian Peacocks at a wedding feast, tick listed
names on scratchy, brittle parchment. Check blazon, such rank of competing
Knights.
ar
off at each end of the hoof trodden turf, those below the salt, the commoners
stand mouths agape in excited anticipation of the foray about to ensue.
Amongst them, clanking rusty pots, pans and a potion cure for everything,
wanders the ragamuffin peddler and in his shadow, the wandering quick
nimble fingers of the purse snatcher, the pocket picker.
oo
late, the bird has flown, the Hawk is gone, its razored talons gripping
hard its pray . . . And in its place, Ravens black, smudge the blueness
of the morning sky as they circle mans warlike folly.
flourish of trumpets. Horses
neigh, toss, snort and as if in polite reply, jingles the bridle bit.
wo
Knights, worthy in title, chivalrous in thought. . . , bloody in deed,
tense sinew and spur on their big bellied steeds, slowly forward. Aligned,
halted now, arms and armour glint, sparkle in the morning sun which bathes
the lushly decorated Pavilion Stand, where grandly sits the rightful King
and his fair Queen.
loosening of the reign, a stab
of the spur. Fearlessly the metal clad warriors charge towards each other
. . .,to maim . . . , to kill. The snap of the broken lance, the clash
of sword on battered shield, the thud of the unhorsed rider. . .the roar
of the crowd, the smell of sweat now betraying the fear. . . .The lavish
design of bright red blood as it spurts and smears the pierced polished
metal. . . ., the cry of pain, the crack of a broken neck. The sightless
eyes of the dead.
