The Levels
The Levels
The reeds, like tattered banners limply hung
From slender, ghost-like lances held on high,
Like ancient armies, waiting in the mist
To heed the call, a long lost battle cry.
A steel grey shroud lies thinly on the fields
Whilst scattered tussocks, shoulders weighted down,
Keep vigil 'round the distant gathered host,
Lest any try to steel their winter crown.
Serrated blackthorn hold the picket line
With swirling cloaks to mask a savage blade,
To pierce such light as morning’s sun may throw
Against them, should a charge be quickly made,
Then with the first faint forays of the day
The legions fade, for spring is on the way.
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