The Field Waits Alone
The lovers are gone,
their love and bruises taken with them.
Here, the farmer's son
struggled with the nobleman's heir,
so innocent and so brave
he fought for his maiden's honour,
in the field where he'd courted her
he broke his bones for her,
and lost his heroic battle
but won his magnificent war.
The battle of wits is gone,
its masters and fallen long buried.
Here, a madman, not really mad at all,
stood, knelt, scurried about,
near the centre of the field
and past the edge of his nerves;
he raged at the tempest,
begged the lightning to set him free;
drenched with regret, he trudged away,
abanoned by the nonchalant storm.
Tomorrow's travails are still,
the field waits alone.
3rd January 2019
Copyright © Lawrence Sharp | Year Posted 2019
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