Epic
The blade buried beneath the burning.
Old hopes lost, back in the lash of battle.
One man walks along the winded mount,
Turning slowly, the sun-silvered seas
Draw his heart horizon-ward, his eyes
Focus in search of the lone fluttering sail,
The boat that bears his bloodied King
Away from heavy war forged ruin and waste,
Across the widening waters. Taken to
The healing houses of the Holy Isle.
Once flowing banners torn down, bitter flood
Of his enemies' hate hastening to undo
The loyal legacy. One still loves.
His fate not to fight hard, and fall
At the side of his sovereign Lord.
Ordered and honoured to keep heart-hope alive.
Over gorse crowned cliffs he carries away
The heavy stewardship of the infant prince.
His ward now to watch and rear, until
His time is full ready to revenge his father's fall.
Copyright © Mark Priestley | Year Posted 2018
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