The sad muffled figure coming towards me
Can barely put one foot in front of the other
As if he had lived a whole life
Without ever seeing a flight of steps.
What terrible sins had not been forgiven
That he should be affected so?
All I can do is stand and wait
Knowing he will need wings
If I am to avoid being late.
But he will never look up
Stares instead at every painful uncertain step
As if he has to count each one.
Then I see that what he has dropped
Is a gauntlet thrown down
And in his hand a walking stick
Turns into something more sinister.
On he comes, now with purpose, over the top
Past barbed wire, the earthworks
Into trenches where fiends lie
Like sacks on rubbish day.
And with a look I will always remember
He accepts my surrender.
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Author:
Christopher Elwell (
Offline) - Published: December 18th, 2017 13:27
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 27
Offline)
Comments1
You describe old age and its slow unsure steps with poetic phrasing and good flow of scenic change which becomes laden with fearful dreams in this tale with a twist in its finalé Chris. First class writing and look forward to reading more of your work.
That's kind of you. Thanks.
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