The Oak Tower - a poem by Clive Martyn

Sat with my back to the rising sun,
I watch my kingdom wake up, amid the fields,
Patchworks full of rich golden corn,
Which rustle in the cool morning breeze.

I feel hidden and safe,
Swinging my feet, happy and content for a while
In the Oak Tower,
On its small green oasis of grass.

Jasper,
My faithful hound growls and snores,
Sleeping fitfully amongst the roots,
His claws unsuitable for climbing.

With my catapult, I target,
The dozen, fat crows,
Circling the pecked scarecrow,
Until I spy a lone, brave knight, walking towards me.

Her long auburn hair,
Flowing behind her,
The knight wanders along the King's Highway,
My highway - smiling to herself.

Her barefeet muddy on its unpaven surface,
She drags her stick sword along,
Splashing in last night's rain,
Eating a windfall apple.

Her freckled face,
Looks up towards the Tower,
Squinting against the sun,
Her hand shielding her eyes.

I draw back the catapult,
As far as it will go,
The stone, a small black bullet,
Is slippery in my hand.

"If you let go of that,
We won't be friends,
Jack Wright!"
She screams.

I let go.
She yelps and runs,
Cursing me,
Crying.

No body believes me when I say,
It slipped,
I didn't mean to,
Sorry.

But in time she forgives,
And sits with me in the Oak Tower,
Holding my hand, a Knight no more,
My Queen.