Hidden Place

Leaves turn to flame as summer is forgotten.

Autumn spreads its power through the veins of trees.

He wanders as a ghost, pushed along in a breeze.

Mud stained boots, tattered cloak, bent back.

Twilight approaches, shining through leaves like beacons

Leading to a memory.

In a clearing tainted by old passions

Stands a warrior, grey clad in stone.

A spear points at the heavens, a shield resting on his leg.

He stares down, grim with the blood that he has shed.

What must you think, wanderer? Standing beneath the ash tree

Where you yourself once stood.

Unclasp your hood, gaze at his majesty

For no one else will.

You see yourself in his eye, once tall and proud.

Your helm polished, shining in the lightning of your sons.

Your sword gleaming, a soul running through its edge.

A leader of proud people. Once.

As the rain begins to fall, tears fall down the cold stone.

Once more the water washes away more lines from your face.

As the grime is washed away, so is the memory.

A sad fate for a long history, do you not think?

Wanderer, remember well this place

It is one of the last places you will see yourself

Beneath the ash tree, spear by your side

And the veins of the world made clear to your edge.

Time has blunted the blade and stolen your passion

But you will not be abandoned.

As you walk away and the storm soaks through your bones

Keep your one eye on the future

For the past will forget this place.

But not you.