Iago: Ambushed

Dark the night sky,
Fell, the foul zephyr.
Brackish black water
Broken by two beady eyes.

Iago has returned.

Creeping up the coast,
He seeks to insert himself
Where least welcome is his self;
They’d prefer him to roast.

He hears a patrol
Coming down the lane,
Hides among barrels of petrol;
They’ll not have his mane.

The patrol stops,
Blocking his intended path.
To avoid the cops
He’ll have to subdue his wrath,

And take an alternate route.
Sneaking down a back alley,
He has no time to dally;
When bright lights remove all doubt:

He’s been followed.

Spinning ’round,
He sees the patrol closed in behind;
In front lie the hounds,
He sees he is confined.

“Welcome to my table,”
Greets the queen,
Gesturing to that of fable,
Round and now white and green.

Ambushed.

At the Siege Perilous,
Sits formidable foe:
Sir Galahad looks ready to row.
Iago takes a seat, voice querulous.

“At this table, all you have to say is heard by all,”
the queen instructs.
Iago’s face falls:
This rule his scheming obstructs.

“You are now cursed to always meet at this table,
Every time you set foot upon our shores.
Think not that you are able
To remove this curse from your core.”

His vitriol laid bare,
He tells the reasons
For despair;
But it’s not his season.

“So you have naught but speculation
To lay before this confabulation?
Each of your points in turn countered?”
The queen sees his plan has foundered.

“Then you are dismissed,
Thank your for your time.
Now back into the brine,
Return to the abyss.

You’ll not be missed.”

©2021 H.K. Longmore

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