Across the checkered plain
with longing they look
towards each other.
He would be her King
she would be his Queen.
If only they could,
if only they could but,
if only they could but surmount
lying in between.
So many little things
must first be done barely
can they count them.
fifteen apiece to begin,
surely that is thirty
and even then, that’s not all,
that’s not all, not at all.
More than just the minor
there’s always so much more.
To get at the little the larger
must needs be forced aside.
How can they face all against them,
bishops, knights, castle walls,
as if greater forces combined
ordain that this they must,
without choice or voice to say,
other than do as told,
and thus shall wait.
At her impatient command
horses move forward
o’erleaping minor obstacles
turning in a thrice
even if needs be, twice.
To his bidding cold churchmen
find and leave gaps where other moves
may yet be made.
It is in that space then dance begins,
circling round they approach,
they waltz, they jive
they know what it is to be alive.
By tangoes torn again apart,
they are not the only players on the checkered stage,
obstacles great and small also whirl their ways,
twirling round so the very ground shifts,
even rattles and shakes, rocks and rolls.
At times they almost lose their feet,
all the while two things they never lose.
Firstly, sight of each other, however dim,
secondly, their final goal, their end in view.
From opening moves to endgame
always it is each other they seek
until at last the final play