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

these obstacles

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

sideways sidling

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

on that battered board concedes,Image


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