caught on the field between
sir-ghostly-past and sir-fantasy-future,
a heart almost deadened from earlier struggles:
bride-to-be considered not really a trophy -
more an abandoned trinket,
or bauble for toying

tournament consists of steely lances
thrust from different directions,
frontally first - to some extent, expected,
then unawares - struck from behind,
until one victor stands
either totally smitten,
or at the least, overcome


fake suitors wrestle desultorily,
neither risks overly much in the fight,
barely present any desire to cast the other aside:
each has only vague urge to dominate,
more a display of chivalry than the blood-lust of youth
bent on wedding beloved white-veiled virgin,
standards are lowered for widow’s weeds -
slender motivation to raise royal insignia

yet bystanders clamour for a result:
the triumph of fidelity or passion?
crowd would like the issue settled,
once and for all

Knight and Knave both half-hearted:
it is almost an indecent match,
prize hardly worth the effort,
besides, neither combatant has been shown
any particular favours, virtually
no indication of preference

a wonder that the lack-lustre event
was even organised,
the contest arises only
as a matter of honour -
hardly a tour d’amour