CX: A vision from the night-time watchman's view
The firelight is dim upon my post—
My watch—my guard about this dismal gate.
But, merciful, the page comes, like a ghost,
who brings with naught but food, my gloom to sate.
We sit and talk, this page and I, within
the room next this portcullis, tired and cold.
I ask how fares his journey—how has been
the work of all his lords from fold to fold.
He tells me their demands have run him dry.
I eat as he describes his weary way.
From place to place he hastens at their cry,
with parcels and with trinkets day by day.
And then, the headlights hack the sight I’ve seen.
The DoorDash driver’s car disturbed the scene.