Wednesday, 9 April 2014

The Coming Storm

The young squire struck a chord on his citole,
Gazing up at the Knight’s lamenting form.
A storm approached, dark and menacing,
Echoing the nobleman’s visage.
For days they had wandered the treacherous land,
Seeking yet not knowing.
Horses bereft of direction,
Confusion abounds.
Approaching a secluded marsh
The two wanderers lay down to rest.
Clouds of fury begin their sudden deluge,
Rain hiding the tears.
Sparing a glance, the squire knows
Beneath his helmet his Lord keeps close vigil.
Body devoid of feeling, not a stir,
For he is thinking of her.

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