Gawain for a Day

Just before dawn old warriors cried

and carrion died inside their dreams.

The man today who thought of

Gawain, awake, could only

cry his heart out to heaven.

 

Gawain formed a star from blood

to resurrect his sinning bones, and

spun a crooked service from his lips

to the watching Virgin on the wall.

 

An aeon later the mortal woke,

terrified someone would call

and break his dread inaction

in the room without a prayer.

 

Galloway’s veins whipped Gawain

to life like a gamecock on a quest,

mumbling on a sinew of decay,

and making his way to God knows where,

without a sense of errantry.

 

Light hit the man who felt it least,

touching his skin unlovingly,

shadows in the craters of his eyes,

showing the wrong in every breath.

 

Gawain knelt for no one,

whatever any lying annal says.

Sun muscled his mission

and sent him muscled through the hills.

An old hawk’s sport is unknowable

without a border to patrol.

 

Today the man’s wound went away

long enough for him to dress.

Knots unfurled in his chest

and fluttered like pennons in the breeze.

All crawling knowledge of his self

retreated to leave him blessed,

and any challenge could be answered

this one moment of his many years.

 

Sentinel fog hid hunting dogs

he killed like sparrows on his talons,

tale tellers hoping to catch a speck

of the fierce death he lets fall

from a face as red as summer death.

He crushes them with his boot

and laughs to see them change

to squalling birds flapping

by the Solway side.

Without knowing it at first,

the man grew an inch all morning,

then saw his height reflected

in the dark eyes of a woman,

he cursed his lack of guile

for not taking advantage.

 

Gawain’s games in May time

are best left to imagination.

Women, rare as unicorns in the wild,

were snared by his flaming eyes.

His thanks a gruff comedy,

laughing with her at the sight

of his rotten flesh able

through some gross alchemy

to shudder through the act.

 

Mystic birds haloed his head,

girls whistled invitations

from first floor windows,

vanishing when he looked,

as if to test his sieging strength.

He  wondered who could taunt

him so cruelly,

leaving him to drown in sweat

all through the boiling afternoon.

 

Dining in the Dark Ages

was no matter of taste or decency.

Fish, flattened by saints’ feet,

were still able to curse

the men who boiled them.

Gaunt men roamed in rat packs,

unable to keep fat on limbs

or keep the plague at bay.

 

The man eats with the knowledge

it will deliver him to death,

chewing with calm black languor,

disallowing the flavour

and knowing it will sour later.

Any pleasure he deems to take

will sag as rancid fat

on his creaking frame.

 

Ravens mock Gawain’s shrinking frame

as the gloaming shrouds around him.

A screech owl delivers his soul

to a dark house never guessed at

when dew was on the trees.

His fears were like the staring

of moon struck men,

standing like stricken cattle,

sure the moon would fall.

 

Streetlights transport the man

to the certainty of dreaming,

relieving the burden’s weight

of the day like Gawain.