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.