In the distance see them there
moving in increments bare
to the top of that hill
onward and upward, steadily they rise…
with the sun in their face, and grins in their eyes…
And we watch below the alter
Into the grassy plateau of souls….whispering of yesteryear’s
they march towards the point….
men from the east to the men of the west
The sky looks down and rumbles in knowing….and the earth trembles beneath the iron hoofs, and boots of steel
across the red river, and the skulls and ravens…they go…to the field of swords…
Look to your hips soldier…
take from your holster the venom from tongue….
for across the field…table…or room…comes your brother, sister, mother and friend…
and we plunge our swords together into the souls of our reflections…and fall together again again and again
onto the field of swords…..
feat photo by Rita Crane
Written by Veron Graham
Topics: Prose Poetry