Isolated outlier, virulent against the landscape
casting sharp shadows deep over Brinsabach.
Raise your eyes to see the commendations,
solemn reminders of such noble lives.
But this was no mausoleum, not in the years before,
a time when the seasons counted more than the days.
Old straight tracks converge, clustering in abeyance,
clammering for attention. Lines in the landscape
scouring grooves across liquid green fields,
misaligned hedges disrupting natural intentions.
Stannary trackways, perhaps Roman roads,
pushed through regardless, carving paths
back to Kit Hill and forward to where
the maidens dance to an earthly tune.
Saintly warrior, angelic one, you were late to the fight.
It was an audacious coup! Denunciations and invocations,
accusations of devilry, when, in truth, they merely objected
to the ruination of her rule. Stone piled high heralding
your name, overlaying ancient alignments, usurping
her place, to sit, smug and righteous, on a Rowan throne.
Yet she cares not, and there’s the irony. What worry to her
to see stone piled upon stone, when she measures
time by the millennium. Rebuild as you wish, replenish
your beliefs, as you repoint your works, limewashing
the cracks and crevices, but know that while the
Galaxy wheels and the Cosmos drifts on, only the
earthly power beneath will survive the journey.
About the Creator
Simon Ward
Freelance writer and editor, currently itinerant.
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