At least once or twice a season I take out
That hunk of metal
And hang it from a hook in the corner,
Its sword arm raised, visor clamped shut,
A mace dangling,
As draughts whistle through elbow joints,
The whole swaying slowly
Like a pendulum,
The body surprisingly childlike,
Its limbs puny, the mace
No bigger than a dandelion,
The feet encased in dark metal
Barely touching the ground,
Toe-tips grating on the slate floor
(The sound of a drawbridge lowered
Over a frozen moat), the cloak
Clasped at the neck by a single thread of blood,
A figure from the distant past,
Armorial, its shield
Of the thinnest tin, its blade
Nicked and rusted over, the hilt
A broken cross,
While through eye-slits a glaucous gaze
Surveys the room
Without a flicker of surprise
Or interest, though when I haul
The whole stinking carcass down again
To put away for another season,
I sometimes hear a gurgled name
From underneath the dented breastplate,
As the frailest of iron fingers find my own.
Armorial
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