face to face

The armour lies in a heap
just inside the door
like sweaty hockey equipment
at the end of the season.

There across the shoulder
the memory of a mighty blow
by some now dead foe
the once gleaming battle-sword
now hacked and dull
its grip muddied with old blood
like a torn magazine
in a doctor’s waiting room.

Soon he will come down for a meal
and she will slowly open
and read to him from
the book of gardens and honey wine.


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About riverwriter

Poet, playwright, duplicate bridge player, website designer, cottager, husband, father, grandfather, former athlete, carpenter, computer helper for my friends, theatre designer, backstage polymath, retired teacher of highschool English, drama, art, a baritone singer in a barbershop quartet, who knows what else? wordcurrents is on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/wordcurrents/ Doug also has a Facebook page, "Incognitio", related to his novels.
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