And thus it was decreed that,
Before the clock reached seven of the morn, she -
The Lady of the Sorrows –
Would arise,
Having left her warm and comfortable cot
An hour anon,
And go forth to join that throng
Of stalwart travellers – The Commuters –
Feared by all.

Let the Battle Commence!

Two wriggling, writhing Snakes –
Destined never to meet
But forever run at a tangent,
Or parallel at best,
On pre-ordained permanent ways –
Traversed the land.

The first,
More of a slow, short Worm
Sucked into it’s belly The Commuters –
Homo sapiens of every rainbow hue –
In it’s path,
To later spit them out
In the far land of Elmer’s End.
For why?
For the Battle to Reach the Charing Cross.

And yet on this fair morn
The Worm had dallied at a place known as
The Arena and, perchance,
Would not reach it’s journey’s end –
Elmer’s End -
On time.

The Band of The Commuters pawed the ground nervously -
Angrily, some! –
As they spied through a semi-transparent closure
In the Worm’s side –
The silvery, slithery Snake,
Which would bring them to victory,
And their glorious destination, the Charing Cross.

And lo! From amongst the midst of that
Now sullen and forlorn Band
Arose a champion –
He a warrior of Nubian descent,
A dusky Prince from The Sandy Lands –
The Black Knight.

“Fear not!” that brave Black Warrior (base-ball cap be-hatted and
Slightly greying of temple) cried.
“For I shall challenge and parry with the Snake,
And cause it to tarry anon,
So you may all climb on board.”
And, as the Worm’s closures opened at last to spew them forth,
Black Knight strode determinedly across
that expanse of land called The Plat Form,
And found an opening in the Snake’s side
And dallied there,
To keep his word.

And thus it was at eight of the clock that
The Lady of the Sorrows
Alighted from the Snake at the Charing Cross,
There to wend her way – after sustenance (served by a Merry Wench for the price
Of two and a half golden coins of the realm) at a tavern
Of the same name, of course! –
To the fair Land of the White Hall,
Where all Gentle Men wore striped favours,
In respect for Her Majesty.
There the Lady of the Sorrows
Would toil ‘til dusk,
To earn a crust for the morrow
And a place to rest her weary head that night.

“God speed to you, Black Knight!”

© Bella Fortuna®