The Bout

Swash sweep of crisp breeches,

Patient tones as he teaches,

Mumble glare of the lights,

Is she ready for the fight?

Flick flutter of a salute,

Nervous adjustment of a boot,

He claps his hands like thunder,

The battle is now assunder...!

Tingle tangle of the blade,

Slices of victories made,

Armies of suited ghosts,

Haunting the clouded doubt most...

Crumble crack of the armour,

But no hit will harm her,

Fencing builds a wooden fence,

Naked from all pretence.

(DandelionFields)