Sunday, 15 April 2018


I found this gentleman knight in Florence. Lifelike, he could be sleeping rough with his helmet for a pillow. We know he's not. 

Young, full lips, his arm casually curved around the armour that protects his head - this is a tender monument. In contrast, British knights in effigy lie stiff and stately, in full armour or frocked and ruffled, poker straight. 

Perhaps if a Roman god commanded, he might wake. The stone warm and soften to flesh, the chest rise and fall, or breath cause a nostril to flare. He might twitch as consciousness returns, rouse, and open his eyes. Sitting up, he'll wince at the pins and needles in his arm and deadened hand. He'll look about for comrades, the physician, his mother, or his horse and marvel at the silence and exhibits. He'll totter and try to stand. 

I'll put out an arm to help, but I don't speak Italian or Latin. 

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