The Lewis Chessmen.
By P.B. Phillips

Saucer eyed berserker, rests on his sword.

Waiting for the battle, at camp he’s just bored.

 

Bishop in his mitre, tonsure hidden away.

Staff of a wizard, diagonal stab and pray.

 

Eight faceless infantry, one square only to advance.

Shield of stiffened doeskin, no match for horse and lance.

 

Bearded knight bewildered, half his body a beast.

Jumping over hedge and stream, hungry for a feast.

 

King crowned, be-throned, sheathed sword in hand.

Glumly watches on, nothing goes as planned.

 

Hand on cheek, white Queen ever in despair.

Always wondering why she bothers, whizzing here and there.

 

All these ivory people, currently trapped in a lit glass cage.

I bet they dream of escaping the museum, to their bygone magic age.

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