[Loch-ruadh] poetry special (long)

[HRAFNASDOT at aol.com]

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[ Picked text/plain from multipart/alternative ]
This is LONG - It was missed in the last Scarlet Letter issue because of
e-mail problems and length.  I would like to share it, but warn you, it is
long. If you enjoy it or recognize yourself in it, then it serves its
purpose.  The scenes are yours - the bad poetry mine. It is as yet untitled
   :o)  Asa




The Road was long and long again, as we traveled to the War
A caravan of people left, for lands to the east afar
And being neither soldier, knight, nor an archer shooting far
I saw action from a different eye than those who fight so hard

The darkness cloaked our arrival there; the rain came misting down
A fog hung round night of camp while travel weary we found our ground
The first bright faces a the sight were our friends that we soon found
Fog smoking in the night, poles and boxes of tents and gear abound

Each camp has its own special voice and twas no different this one of ours
In the night the earth had sprung bright tents all the colors of the flowers
And along the thorough faire that day we saw the banners, flags and towers
A City had sprung full grown while we had slept, with mystic building powers

And so began the War that day, with dust and work and sweat
The battles were on the horizon now, but the excitement grew and yet
The far off clash of mighty blows would filter through the day
The call of heralds stilled the talk as all paused to hear their say

Each person had a tale to tell, each night round every fire
While sipping on a warming drink, waiting to retire
"I can’t wait to see their faces, men, when we present to all their line
So many flying ballista bolts - I swear they’ll look like porcupines!"

"The drummers drum their haunting beat each and every night.
You hear them as you go to sleep while dream carpets take thier flight."
"You smell the smells of cooking fires, the canvas and the trees.
First hot then cool, then misty wind whispers round your knees."

Traveling down the Merchant’s row, their wares twinkle in the night
Silver, gold, fur and precious amber beads beckon in candlelight
Storms blow in and toss and shake the camps, flinging all about
Then flees in one tremendous crash that echoes like a shout

Women sit and paint the day with horns belling in the breeze
And holding still, they lay the lines, then precious golden leaves
The acid ink etches its dark way; the paint washes it with color