Guinevere

At dawn, you saddle up your horse,

release the hounds and set your course

beyond the daunting castle gate

through which I fled by my escape.

Across the meadow, hills, and creeks,

your hungry howling canines streak

with steamy breath, with eyes hell-bent.

They pause when they detect my scent

then rage with gnashing fangs and claws,

a thundering roar of hooves and paws.

You whip the reins in hot pursuit

and snap the stirrup with your boot

as I, a brown eyed doe distressed,

my pounding drum inside my chest, 

race bounding through the trees and grass.

I hide in hopes that you will pass.

But as you near, the skies release

a frozen cotton cloak of fleece

that melts the leaves and fades the green

so, I no longer am unseen.

You arch the string.  You aim the bow.

You let the piercing arrow go.

The polished steel, the feathered shaft

sail whispering through a snowy draft

beyond, beneath, below, across.

It finds its target in the frost.

The gleaming edges of the blade

have forged a crimson stream’s cascade

that floods the cleft between my breasts

and lulls my heaving heart to rest.

You lift me lifeless, limp, and bare

across your steed.  My dangling hair

is purged with ice and clumps of snow.

“It’s back to Camelot we go!”

Amongst the knights, you lay me down.

The fire is warm, the table round.

Their banners high, their poles erect,

they spread me wide as to inspect

your darling beauty’s curves and crease

so pale, so still, so much at peace.

Then one by one they joust my core

till drained and spent, they joust no more.

But every gush of heated spray

has slowly turned my night to day.

I wake in wonder, fresh and new.

No wounds, no scars, no clothes, no clue.

You raise your cup.  My cunt’s a mess.

“Playtime is up.  Let’s get her dressed.”

Then, drag me screaming to the gate.

“Run fast, you whore!  We hunt at eight.”