He goes from town to town — his plume on show;
his trusty steed pulsating in the ride.
His motivation none can really know;
but through their hearts his love does wisely glide.
His sword is sharp but never draws their blood;
its purpose is to cut through useless clouds
and old defensive weapons in the mud
or ancient cobweb-covered mourning shrouds.
But yet behind the armour that he wears
a fountainhead of sanguine tears is found.
A pallor on his hidden face declares
the loss endured on every battleground.
For though he healed a thousand hearts at least
(and loved them well) his solitude increased.
© 2012, Alan Morrison