A golden temple
Gilt trinkets float on the breeze
They blanket the earth
Sunlight, ever unbending, catches the veins running through the maple leaf held between the fingers of the old warrior. He places it amongst its kin, who reflect the dusk back up at the sighing canopy.
He sits atop the high cliffs above the village, deep in contemplation. With him are his sword, his bow, and his horse. Tools fashioned for the certainty of war and the uncertainty of peace. In all his life, he has never imagined a moment when they would falter in their duty of extracting order from chaos. They have felled more warriors than he can remember. They have guarded the lives of diplomats across decades. On occasion, he has called them up to execute the justice of the law. But against the maelstrom of horror that tears through the land now, they are simply rocks cast against an ocean wave.
This foe is silent, leaving hacking coughs and wailing lamentations in its wake. It moves across rivers and mountains. Over walls and through castles. It is unseen. It cannot be cut or pierced or trampled. It lows the young and the old alike. It is without thought. Without mercy. It will not end until it has consumed all that can be consumed. So it must be severed from its sustenance.
The village below, his home all these years, has shown the first signs of visitation from this undying enemy. He cannot understand its mechanisms, so the old warrior resorts to what has been known to him his whole life.
The sword does not stir. It is patient. It cannot cut this enemy, but there are others that it can. And with it, the warrior prepares to end the travel of this doom, lest other old men be faced with the choice before him now.
Unaware, the village prepares for a night that will not see dawn. Before he descends, he writes one last poem.
Death’s blossoms catch
The spark of a mournful sword
Embers burn the tree
Paddy Dobson
5th August 2020