Until the Hour

Through dim

Years of distain,

On the barren,

Moon-dark steppes, the hero’s

Blade has lain,

Half-broken,

In the shadows,

Where regiments of rattling

Drones

Skulk by,

Their bones

Whining

In the wind, the lights of their eyes

Gone,

Lugging through the mire,

Their banners grim

All hung with skulls and bells and pelts on wire,

They, the rusted kings,

Who create and re-create

Their soulless empire

Of uncounted deaths

And only lies.

Yet, all the while, the snow lily

Grew

Among the rocks

In the rain

Of silver tomorrows

Her petals, ghost-patterned

In the grace-filled land

Where all beginnings

Once arose

In the foothills of the eternal ones.

There gentle flocks

Of dragons,

Hatched of the sea,

Flew

In the pure skies

That overlie

The smoking rim

Of time, until

The hour when,

In the quiet, unremarked snows

That slip over oak and briar,

Along the high,

White-hooded hill,

Dragon dreams of standing stones

Walk abroad again

On the earth, and

The sword sings

In the ancient dawn

Of mists and myths.

***

Written around 2000.

© Copyright, Sharon St Joan.