The Night Time Knight

When the clock ticks 3
And the house is dark
And the corridors are cold
That's when I don my dressing gown
And become a Knight of old.
My zimmer is my battle horse.
My walking stick; my lance.
I grab my teeth and slip them in.
I'm ready at a glance.
My hips are worn.
My hair is grey.
My eyes must strain to see.
But in my mind I'm Galahad.
And stronger than can be.
My Maisie lays in gentle sleep.
My darling wife by day.
But in this witching time of night
She is my Princess Mey.
Her snoring turns to gentle breaths
Upon her feather bed.
Now I must journey down the stairs
And face the foe I dread.
A glass of water gently sipped
Becomes my glug of mead 
This nectar from the God's themselves
Is enough to quench my need.
And as I assend the staircase
I wave my bed sheet banner
And ease into my charriot
By day a lift from Stannah.
Now standing in the Portcullis
Also named my kitchen
Armed to fight the Dragon foe
My arrow fingers twitching.
The twitching could be caused in part
By my atheritic hand.
But that's an issue for the day
Not one for Night Time Land.
The smoke arises in the air
That's Dragon breath for sure
Or the kettle steaming up
Before I start to pour.
The smoke is cleared.
The Dragon flies.
And now in truth must I.
Back to Maisie's sleeping side
Her Knight of Night will lie.

 
Written by Dov Citron on 03/01/19
© January 2019 Dov Citron

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Oldage, elderly, Knights, medieval, historic, foreveryoung, dreams

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