Liminial

One eve, amidst moonlit stone.

I whispered to my steed,

“If I should fall upon the field,

let not the minstrels mourn my shield.

But say instead a lady fair,

did tie her braid with such sweet care,

I lost the will to lift mine sword—

and in that pause, I loved her more”

Mine oath was sworn to shield and steel,

to kings, to keeps, to tempests raised.

like dusk doth spill

What sorcery be this? What trance?

That I recall how soft she braid

her hair by candle’s ghostly flame,

as though the strands were threads of fate

and I, a fool without a name,

unfit for love, yet drawn by weight.

I’ve counted not the foes I’ve slain,

but count her glances twice a day.

A fool, perhaps, to hope in vain,

yet hope hath ever led men stray.

scared stars, ailing away

may none cry war, nor raise my name,

but let them write upon my tomb:

He fell not by the sword’s cruel flame,

but by the braid, and by the bloom.”