The Saracen

I saw his fiercesome face
beleaguered by a daily-hourly bending
sun, the flash and grin of his dreadful blade
borne aloft and gripped with concrete fingers.

His eyes like daggers mocking with heat,
sped storied curses through the victim’s throat,
and I saw them turn and latching hold,
defy his arms’ attempts to lift aught
with which to defend from the flying foe.

The quiet paces sent up swirling spits of dust
like Edenic mists, a slice of space
unheeding the rush and roar, and headless
stood the curse-bound corpse, a mast-less
bark—toyed by torque, then bidden sink.