Blue flowers, dark stone, on some wind swept moor.
As I look, the wind carries the sound of sadness.
The stones fade, in their place a grave
Gaping dark in the early morning light.
Lights of torches approach up the hill
Lines of people, men and women, all silent.
Around the grave men in chain mail standing
Sword points in ground, hands clasped on hilts
Heads bowed low.
Four men carry a body on a stretcher
Leather stretched between two spears.
A long forgotten chieftain, golden circlet on head
Golden cloaked, sword grasped in hands.
They lay the body in the grave to silence
Except the whine of the wind in the gorse.
Dark stones are piled one on another, higher and higher.
When they are finished, a woman steps forward,
Kneels and plants some blue flowers among the stones.
The men in chain mail lift their swords above their heads
In salute to their departed chief, turn and march away
To some other war.
Blue flowers bloom each year, the dark stones washed clean
By the falling rain.
No comments:
Post a Comment