Though the beast slew the knight with its fiery bile,
The stink – like a long-rotting horse – was less vile
Than the offence to senses polluting the air:
The dragon already left casualties there.

But in the desolation, as soft as a word,
In claw-stoked black ashes, there, something has stirred.
Now they say that a phoenix can rise from its coals,
But do they say the same of an army of souls?

And a dragon is ancient and massive in size,
But its slick scaly armour is fashioned from lies:
When its serpent-tongue speaks it spins webs of deceit
Which will cover its back but entangle its feet.

Thus encumbered, ensnared and unable to flee
It can do naught but quail as its made enemies
Come still closer – you see there, launching a barrage,
Those it worked hard to break – and the knight leads the charge.

Now each layer of armour is stripped to its skin
And each lie scoured away till its bulk becomes thin.
Yet it still lashes out, just a mad cornered thing:
Just a posturing Warbeck who tried to be king.

And it’s less than a dragon, and less than a snake,
Even less than a worm; it can no longer fake
That it’s more. Still it closes its eyes to what’s real.
So the knight, once brought down, at last brings down her heel.