Lance

A lance gleams in noon‑lit clime,
a slender spear that stretches wide—
its shaft, a timbered,‑old ark of wood,
carrying the weight of old‑world pride.

In cobbled lanes of Stratford‑on‑Avon,
the echo of a knock‑kick on stone,
a knight mounts the field, his armour clanking,
armed with courage and a polished lance.

Its tip, a razor of iron‑dark,
thinks not of stars but of a squall,
for the maiden’s cry storms through the guard,
and the lance sings a war‑spelled hall.

The lance is a poet‑lay of steel,
a compass that points to the brave,
a dagger‑laced promise to the battlefield,
to be wielded where bravery’s wave turns and sways.

Its cab rallying in grim sunrise bloom,
it folds in the twilight, whispers the wood’s old harvest—
a relic of gallant thought that pursues any bloom,

and in the hush of centuries, the lance still meets the day,
its hue a faint re‑echo of the ghost‑steel’s gentle sway.