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Homestead Knights

(for Arthur and Kay, before the Stone)

In the paddock’s dawn‑mist,
we joust with broom‑handles,
helmets dented from
last winter’s wood‑pile war.

Kay swears his steed
is faster than mine —
though both are milk‑cart ponies
with hay in their manes
and the patience of saints.

Our shields are feed‑bin lids,
our gauntlets, mother’s old mittens;
we ride the fence‑line
as if it were the edge of the realm.

Between chores,
we patrol the creek ford,
banish thistles from the path,
and guard the henhouse
from foxes real and imagined.

At night,
we sit on the porch steps,
boots steaming in the cool,
and plan the next day’s campaign —
whether to conquer the far paddock
or finally dare the dark of the shed.  

 Somewhere beyond the hill,

a stone waits in its clearing,
but for now
the kingdom is here:
two knights of the homestead,
sworn to the crown
of the rising sun.

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