The Trigan Empire Redux

Cotillions murmur threats on well-trodden veins
dinner table laid for battle, verbs creak
at close quarters, gun-ports open
miners' picks echo beneath a clean blue gingham tablecloth
dragons fume their DNA of jealousy
For one
           a fair princess of crumbling lineage rescued
           essays of bloody quests with a sword-arm
            pledged for her, his shoulder for her tears
Against
            favours curried by the other in absence
            So now he had seen her through menopause?
two rusty swords, two rusty swords
a three-cornered tessellate, edges bound to each other
three fingers of a monkeys fist laid tight together
bound figures tightening in a Spanish windlass
bleach-grey rope with frowsty countenance
a string-of-pearls grey snakeskin sloughed-off, dead
un-sheath my furious skin
I head into the rain-cleared day, a new dance in my step.