The Playground

Surveying the lands beyond his castle,
he marches out, holding his heir’s hand.
In their shadow, a woman,
plainly dressed, with her head down,
marked by her uniform; an apron.

Seizing the handle behind his offspring,
he grips it, bearing down.
Small sandals thump the ground.
The other end flings its load skyward,
it can never be level; displaced by his power, trapped.
He laughs at the servant flailing her legs.

Clenching the reins of the horses,
their twisted legs bound to the ground.
With his progeny, two cavalrymen in formation.
His ever-present sword brandished, reflecting the woman
standing in their wake, always at hand,
watching them ride off to nowhere.

Perching on the crest, his young companion descending.
Eyes of a warrior glaring at his retainer,
ensuring that she fulfills her duty.
Spotting her distraction he brings down his wrath,
commanding her attention as they climb once more.
Fettered, it is not her place to ascend.

Building a citadel on a foundation of sand.
The woman labours, scooping up dirt,
washing the tools with tears and sweat.
He dictates the design and moulds the walls.
He shares ownership with his other half, his inheritor,
she holds no part of it.

Pressing the backs of the lord and his child,
they always come back; a cycle.
Muscles aching from pushing them forward.
She, like the one legged horses, stands still.
Were she to try and break the chain,
her position would be forfeit.

Completing his task, he returns,
carrying his exhausted scion on his back.
She follows them in silence,　
gazing at their feet, loathing.
The impotent wife.