The Knight

The knight
armoured all in white
tilting upon his pride up right,

settled in the raven saddle tress of might
holding in his hand like thunder:
the
Excalibur
of light!

He looked upon the bequest of his death
splashing in buds
bloomed all in the red of
his seething blood,
rebellious,
rippling the garden,
in flood.

Sparking like springs
with the neck
pedestaling the crown of kings,
he oared and bellowed in rave
amongst them like wind and wave
like a dancer who
to convex coils concave,
that even one thorn
couldn't scratch the mirrors
of his wings.

He was a vessel on the waves of blood
where the thunders of his blade
screamed his affrighting light
in to the ears of
the deceitful night.