The Heat of Battle

At the foot of the garden, beneath iron skies,
on his plinth of white velvet Sir Snowedalot stood.
A knight of this realm, he surveyed it with eyes
made of beady black buttons. His sword was pale wood
and a hubcap his shield as he fought for a prize
much greater than gold: all things gracious and good.
Copper helm, an old jam pan with handles for ears,
grey glove for a gauntlet, unravelled by years.

No knight was more proud or more fabled in story
than Snowedalot, guardian of garden and gate.
Every day Sam looked out at his pale frosted glory
then crammed on his coat, as he scarcely could wait
to engage with his champion in battle so gory
that white was stained red and his hero would state:
“Oh I am Sir Snowedalot, fight if you must,
I warn you my prowess will turn you to dust!”

One Sunday the sunbeams warmed tingling air,
the icicles dripped and the branches shook free.
Sam hurried outside with the sun in his hair
and his sword in his hand just as bright as could be.
“Oh I am Sir Snowedalot, fight if you dare,
but I’ll be victorious, none mightier than me!”
Vainglorious words! But the last he would say—
by the end of the day he’d quite melted away.