Arfur’s Castle stands remote, aloof, crumbling, on a grassy knoll.
Conquistadores and anchorites
camp out under the stars
on the shore below
silent and brooding in mutual contempt.
A beehive cluster
thrives in the scrub
above the land and sea,
aware of playing
their part in history,
observing from a clod…
peace is bitter, fragile, salt,
cherished and taxed by capricious elements
in unsteady measure.
A bell rings, muffled voices,
Dig out familiar honorifics,
exchange predictive sequences.
A conclusion is drawn.
Visions of safety and despair hug.
News of decay and hope embraced.
The word has been spread.
Something to consider anon.
The nights are long out in the panhandle,
buffalo sedge to plough
when the rains stop flooding the hog pits.
Destiny’s got the whip hand.
Keep your head when all round loses theirs.
Remember the good years in the horn of plenty.
Wind sure picks up in these parts.
Wonder sometimes how
the boys in the Shamrock are getting on.
Is Henry still up to his old tricks?
Boice will never be the same
without him if he took that ride he said.
Still times sure move on.