Waiting for the Day

Across the trampled field there lies

the mounds of armor, spent and gone

that once, enlivened, fought their king

and all besmeared now lie upon the clay

Three figures, carried, each from off their cross

as ever watchful priests survey the scene.


The Old Pretender sits at last

upon the hill he sought to snatch

surveying this, his greatest catch,

and restless squirms to look behind his seat

“We remember this deceiver said…”

And so with guards they make the tomb secure


Unnatural stillness seems to rest

like dew upon the battle-ground:

and worried, still, he sits and frets

and runs his darkened mind across the fight

And just outside the tomb of ancient stone

Divinely counted minutes mark the day


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