The Song

It's been awhile since I've done anything with this blog. When I created my new one, I wrote here that I would still post some new work from time to time. Lately, the only new writing I've done has been on the novel I'm working on. I don't want to post that here, as it's too long and not done and on the off chance it ever gets published, I don't want to have already released it. Anyway, that's a really longwinded way of saying, I did something new today, and I want to share it with you. Here's a poem I call

The Song

The road stretches on and on and on and on out of sight,

blending with the darkness of the wood and the stars in the night.

The old man saunters on, singing a lark of bygone days.

He sings of love and seasons.

Of fields and waves.

He sings a song of kings and peasants both alike to the old man in the night.

He sings of a wandering gnome who found a garden filled with bees.

The bees fought a great war, thousands died.

The gnome watched with glee as insects piled high

above the grass and flowers and in the end the garden was a waste,

and so the gnome sauntered on.

The old man pauses now, and turns off the path.

He walks into a glen and bows a stately bend.

He sings the trees and asks them for a boon.

The trees hear his plea, and grant him a bed.

The old man lies his head beneath the ash, yet sings still all through the night.

He sings of ogres and foxes.

He sings of sprites and gods.

He sings of a woman and a boy.

He sings of villages and lords.

He sings of life and of motion. He sings of death and of creation.

He stirs in the morn and saunters on

down the road stretching ever ever ever on.

A body lies still in the glen,

but from this body the song has gone.