The Knights Tempera

I recall his bulbous shadow
as he sketched:
'The Finest Joust Artiste In The County' they said
He could capture flying turf
each pleat of plush caparison
the tinges in a knight’s armour –
no man knew equine sinew
like he did –
the painstaking layering of horsetail.

But his hand lies!
I lost my balance,
after my lance snapped,
such was the almighty blow I dealt
to my rival
My foot trapped in the folds of my team colours –
but only following my own triumph
(an air punch no less).

This fraud's wobbly hand
could draw a horse no better than
one could draw water from a stagnant well!

The rumours are
the 'artiste' is not averse
to a little liquid bribery
and the uncommon might in his left hand
comes from the twirl of too many tankards.

Quaffed in the right quantities
he'd see beauty in mud.

The Knights Tempera

As you cock your heads
to muse at this conundrum of gravity
I ask you, please
position this book to Landscape
Somehow it is more of a recline
than a fall from grace.