Six Conflicts: V

Society

The map is shiny-slick
Between his fingers,
Littered with tiny lines
And letters-numbers-words,
But he remembers
Broader maps of
Mountains-rivers-kingdoms
And he knows how to get
Where he's going.

Were he at his best –
Armored,
Weapon-strong,
Well-rested and well-fed
On freshly-caught venison
And thick stew from
The Chief Cook's hand –
He could march it in one day,
Imagine the steady
Thump-thump-thump
Of his knights and soldiers
Behind him
Beneath the fluttering penant
Of gules on a dragon passant.

But he is barely stronger
Than a boy,
Thin-limbed and frail
From sleeping, sleeping, sleeping.
So he folds the map into his pocket,
Seeks the skyline to divine
The compass point,
And he walks.

The grassy roadsides,
Gently-sloping hills,
Footpaths worn by marches previous –
They are his trail,
Cobbled together by questions,
Answers from a man outside a pub,
Puffing on a pipe
Who rolls his r's like the Sons of Orkney,
A group of giggling women-children
With painted faces and innocent-wide eyes.

Those lightning-fast machines,
Cars – steel and cold,
Wild beasts
Without the familiar
Affection and courage
Of a destrier raised from colt-hood –
Speed past,
Littering the air with
Mocking cries and
Honking horns
Like an army of jeering geese.

Only a madman would walk,
Or so these people think,
But then they do not remember
The long marches of tired men
In battered, blood-stained armor
That united this country.

He sleeps beneath the trees
And the stars –
Sky and Starlight –
Until uniformed enforcers,
More brutish, less trained
Than his shining ranks of
Knights upon knights,
Nudge him awake with their boots
And grunt for him to Move along, move along.

Why has he no food?
Why has he no clothes?
Why has he no money?
He is mad – he should be at home.
But he needs none of these things,
He explains, hands still, cautious.
They offer him help, assistance,
A bed for the night.

He cannot explain
That even a king
Can sleep in the dirt
Of his kingdom,
And a man on a quest
Need only be led
By the stars.