The Fight

With a plumed helmet over her head,
a shield in front of her face,
a tunic of steel to protect her heart,
elbows and knees sheathed in guards,
fingers persevered in gauntlets,
legs in blue jodhpurs,
feet clad in tall black boots,
she mounts the horse of Time, tries to tame it
only to be thrown
back to where she started, each time.
The horse rears on his hind legs,
his neighs pierce her unhealed fractures,
mingle with the scab of wounds,
bruises and the silent winces of pain.
Each time the horse wins,
she allows herself to be turned into a pawn,
a pawn that learns, waits, learns to wait,
so she can be the knightess
of tomorrow.
She is ready to fight,
ready to rise up every time she falls
just like the million spirals of dust
that shoot skywards
from the hoofs
of the trampling
horse.