The Last Master of War
Not a true Choka...but uses a 5,7,7,5,7,7 format
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Chill, steaming vapour;
Silence over pale water;
Faded, thin wisps of ribboned
Pink
Above the east gate;
I dip oars...and silence
Breaks.
Trace of flame in lilac sky.
Raise, lean, dip and pull;
Sculling forward little
Twirls
Swirl away from dripping
Blades;
Uplifted soul -- soaring!
Remembering how, when young...
Each new day would bring
New hope.
Extends the shoreline --
Sweeping inwards at the
Point;
Green bulrushes in the bay;
A bittern booming:-
Rising up like slow thunder
Drifting out of jade mountains.
My busied childhood,
Hidden pate not yet shaven;
Shrimping with a fine mesh
Net;
Loud, boyish laughter;
Brimming jars crammed with
Sunbeams --
The golden, darting minnows.
Horizon widens,
Shadow retreats from low
Hills;
Gathering orb comforts me;
Selfsame warm comfort
When held by sleepy women
In cold grey of early dawn.
The vaguest murmur,
Faint as drowsy breathe,
Of the soundings of dim chimes...
A call to prayer?
Hands hard-clenched on the
Staid oars;
Restrained by yesteryear.
Copyright © John Fleming | Year Posted 2020
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