sir caedmon's plight

a highland claymore supported
a heavy sigh,
a dark horse rode west
without his knight,
armor lay rusted and worn,
and wild dogs run off with the kill, a pheasant,
today's nourishment now feast for headless hounds;
a bow and arrow broken by samson's might.
clothes tattered and torn
barely shielding evening's dreary fog
from saturating bone and soul;
his face weary from travel,
his heart dismayed,
his pride wounded,
his countenance contrite,
the fallen knight waited by the road.

he knew not where the road led
but he knew where it led not;
he knew not what lay ahead
but he knew what did not;
uncertainty stayed his steps
and fear pulled muscles and sinews
from any forward movement,
for regret and remorse
he wore like a cloak.

his fire smoldered by soaking rains,
cold now became master;
he was not defeated
and he was strong for this kind of battle;
but yesterday's battle
dethroned him,
bested him
like sir gawain's shame;
all had fled
and the fallen knight agonized
all he had lost.

with no meat or mead to sate hunger and chill,
the knight set out
down the road through heathered fields
and stony hills;
he could find provisions in this wild land,
he could hunt and kill;
a stag ran past,
and another.
a coney skipped the path followed by a clever fox;
game was plenty;
the knight could survive here.
the hills could hide and protect, shield and defend;
pelts could be made to blanket the cold,
fires could be kept.
self sustainment was possible in these untamed hills.
the knight could survive.

ten miles west
a banquet was prepared
where snowdrops adorned a well worn table
and provisions were plenty;
a soft whisper called for return
while hearty hands snapped peas and kneaded bread;
a fire was raised blazing
and song could be heard over the distant murmuring brook;
lamb prepared,
the almonds ripe,
fresh apples filled the basket,
and pie steamed on the sill;

a warm hearth waited
while the door remained open.