No one knows and no one cares
No one remembers how he looked atop his destrier
None of fop; all of wind and movement; a sail of skin, hoof, mind and hide.
Back when his floppy flaxen hair reached his burgeoning smithy shoulders
At ten, he could hold older men above his head.
Since, time’s wrinkling river had wended attritively his attractive facets
He was fatter, his armour clasps harder to fasten
He was slower into and in battle, plate over gammon.
He swung still his father’s mighty war axe, coating it always in fresh gore
Hundredscore men or more he mauled, killings he cannot even recall
Appalling strength in his day but that day is gone, his rage assuaged, paled
Mantle grey, shoulders sagging, flagging vitality croaks its last
Pangs, still need for battle in this mangled frail thing, angled
Such he resembled brittle haystacks stacked in man’s manner, angels
Will need all their tools and charms to rearm him to health, Seven Hells.
He was a man then, standing taller than every foe
Fast and never slow, hold upon his weapon that
Of pitman around coal pick, fixed despite palms sticky
Never harmed or dearmed, winning every sticky situation
All who met him were elated, relating tales of grace and patience
Near saintly, they say, offering him prayers to this day
I say to this day
Detwixt death hence forthwith until forever
Name graven cannot fade.
Alchemisland 
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