Alone I arrive, walking from Frederick
over the gaps, across gentle hills
out onto a knoll
to view this burnished landscape.
Before me I see
countless writhing rows
of indiscernible shapes
gathered in terrible rituals
mid fire and smoke
that darken the sun.
From distant corners I hear
the rhythmic thudding of cannon,
and from fields
astir with figures converging
the eery muffled rumbling of drums.
From behind, hoofing sod aloft
couriers gallop past
straightway into throngs
to where ruffled flags slant,
to men mounted, with swords drawn,
about to unleash their flexing lines
to collide with columns coming on . . .
Continue reading the poem.
Edited by Charles Cingolani, 07 January 2010 - 10:18 PM.