ROGER VICKERY
THE SEVENTH SEAL
The knight could not believe that it was time. He told death this.
The crusades are still weary within my armour;
the sword still smacks at my side.
There was no secret with the falcon.
I am empty.
I do not know anything of the tapestry depth.
He was clamped in the best western mail.
He would not allow the winning cloak, would not perish on the morning rocks would not leave the cold sea grip or the scared horses.
So death sat down to play face puffed out in chalk:
eyes, night ravens
About the board knight led squire.
Bile wine, the stolen woman, the plague festival mated every move
until they saw the fire strip the which face of hope.
The knight looked then at the squire's sullen world.
There was only the stiff, horror chase.
Man had to eat laughter, gorge himself with man
and then move off before the dawn, comforted perhaps
by some hope of sacrifice for the newborn.
So when the scythe man knocked,
it was a stoic knight, readying wife and band who gave him welcome.
Only the squire protested.
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