A Word Picture

We practice blade work underneath the skies,
Breathing sultry, almost liquid air.
And I draw inspiration from your eyes,
Watching from the side lines over there.
I don my mask and gear, pick up my sword,
Preparing as I would for any match,
Imagining myself, a noble lord,
Desiring his Lady’s eye to catch.
Tonight I’m not my solitary self.
I draw steel to impress my Lady Fair.
The pleasure of your smile my greatest wealth.
I raise my blade to you in fair salute,
A token of your favor in my breast.
Then face to my opponent, resolute
Come what may, to offer you my best.
My foe, a youth not half my age, and I
Circle round each other, holding back,
Tentatively probing on the sly,
Seeking an advantage for attack.
Then, thrust and parry! Disengage and strike!
Our blades, like spring-steel snakes writhe in our hands,
Approximating killing strokes belike
A brawl that ends when only one man stands.
We score our touches, balanced evenly,
Youthful speed against experience,
Until we’re both exhausted, him and me.
Shake hands and thank each other for the dance.
Retiring to the side, you meet me there,
A tankard of cool water in your hands.
I drink deep of your gift, push back my hair,
Hang my weapons back upon their stand.
Still winded from my bout, I take my place
Along the side to watch the next pair fight.
But still I look upon your lovely face.
Having you beside me feels so right.
My sword is strong and straight. My thrust is true.
All the more because I fight for you.