Monday, July 7, 2014

Quiet is the Thrush

Quiet is the thrush
beneath the weeping wind.
Aching dull is the sky
to which the soft elms bend.

Heavy is the air
that moves in from the seas,
and laden with a chill
that threatens soon to freeze.

Fallow lay the fields
and broken are the walls,
open are the gates
and empty are the halls.
Useless lay the swords
upon the cobbled ground,
for not one man of valor
in armor can be found.

Weary are the souls
that have measured every hour
with the lonely grieving toll
of the church bell in its tower.
Murdered is our king
and the few left in his stead,
those who still remain
will surely soon be dead.

Breached were our defenses,
and quickly overtaken.
Broken were the treaties,
all the oaths forsaken.

Quickly will we fall
and all will be forgotten,
crosses in the churchyard
under thick grasses sodden.
Blazoned is the victor.
Our destruction is his glory.
Bold heroism remembered,
as time will weave its story

©2014 Eleanor Raif

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