Hunt.
What
surprises are there in days to come?
Where
there be dragons, unmapped, dangerous.
Centaurs
guarding ways into a maze,
A
mead hall where warriors meet and drink.
For
gold and honour they will do my work,
No
fear of dark or underworld for them,
They
raise torches guttering in shadows,
Show
me the murky corners, lurking
Laugh
at my queasiness at what they find,
Permit
my writing, the tearing up of books.
They’ve
no need to understand but carry on,
Soldiers
for the crown a day, bought cheap,
Uncaring
what the expedition means
Its
end? A day’s grub. Silver. My stories.
2 comments:
Going to some dark corners are we? This is what a month of writing poetry does to the psyche...
Twitch.
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