The Saracen

I saw his fiercesome face

beleaguered by a daily-hourly bending

sun, the flash and grin of his dreadful blade

borne aloft and gripped with concrete fingers.

His eyes like daggers mocking with heat,

sped storied curses through the victim’s throat,

and I saw them turn and latching hold,

defy his arms’ attempts to lift aught

with which to defend from the flying foe.

The quiet paces sent up swirling spits of dust

like Edenic mists, a slice of space

unheeding the rush and roar, and headless

stood the curse-bound corpse, a mast-less

bark—toyed by torque, then bidden sink.