Armour sagging, baking in the noonday sun,
dusty lances and shields, bowing this way and that,
trying to remember where this journey began,
in their ragged caravan, the gilded ones come.
Slowly they
creep towards the end of the desert,
famished and bony, horses dying beneath then,
praying for nourishment they know will not come,
searching the horizon for lush pastures of green.
Sliding down one dune to confront
yet another,
faces too grizzled to recognise who they are,
these were the finest that governed over us all,
strange our indifference as we witness their fall.
Watching from safety without understanding,
we switch
on the air con and pour another beer,
why should we feel even the dullest compassion,
for those overtaken by the passing of time.