The Reluctant Soldier: XVIII
Posted March 19th, 2017 by Gracithe1andonly
in wardly searching
Crisp and clear, green, blue, and gold; all dappled flakes
Dotting the ground beneath the trees. I forget,
On days like these, that treacherous fens are near,
Until I smell them.
I do like the stallions. They have spirit;
They are courageous and often quite cheeky.
Some men I know would benefit from somehow
Turning into one.
The clouds are not always oppressive; they’re not
If the air itself is dry and light, floating.
Gray does not have to be drear, not if a flame
Burns in every heart.
I know from my earliest days, all I’ve seen,
From every wanton deed I have witnessed, that
You are wrong! Errant! Failing! You, who taught us!
When will teachers learn?
At last, it seems that my fish-out-of-water,
Megaron, has become a comrade to them.
Ah, I should have guessed from his graceful bearing
That he could dance well.
My mind is a stew; in a sauce of silence,
There sits moments of imprudence, there beside
Days of laughter. My memories are blending;
What do I recall?
The twilight is not red, though it is often
Depicted to be so. It is lavender,
Orange, blue blended purples, and lovely pinks.
Who painted the sky?
See more stories by *Snow* Chrysostom