Thistles and Fairyrings
Amid the mists of Avalon,
Where the fey do tread till dawn,
Enchanted shadows creep and crawl,
Whispering secret somber ballads,
Of the warrior's last mournful call.
The wee folk tell their gothic tales,
Of valiant heroes lost,
Upon the bloodied battlefield,
Lives spent for freedom's thrall.
Lunar beams softly flow,
Through the silent silvered night,
Enticing forth the lone horned beast,
To remember those whom time forgot,
Once Heaven bid them nigh.
Each pixie, nymph, fairy and puck,
Reverently recall the harrowing scene,
Of Wallas and Moray at Sterling Bridge,
And the glory their hard fought battle won.
T'is reverent honor they drape upon,
The common folk that fell,
T'was the farmer's sword and herdsmen's spear,
That through the crimson night did dance,
Then lay silent upon the titan dawn.
A bouquet of thistles and fairyrings,
Are arranged upon each sacred sight,
Where the tender grass did ample sup,
On gallant blood spilled for liberty's pawn.
As the blush of morn embraces the sky,
And the dew laces the fern,
The fey do fade and softly wane,
Only leaving behind their modest gift,
For the warriors who now in Heaven rein.
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2016 collection
PoetryA collection featuring the amazing Poets that call the Poets Pub home.
