by grimbeau

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.