The Aspiring Bard

Thrum, thrum, Milk drumming on the bottom of my pail, The squeezing rythm of my two hands, The lazy movement of the cow's tail. Swish, swish, My milking pail is almost half-way filled. Eyes closed, I rest my head on the cow's flank, My wriggling toes are getting chilled. Sud, sud, My pail overflows with creamy milk-foam. I turn the cow into her warm stall, Then, on frozen feet, I hobble home.

Crumbling battlements against a stormy sky, The gaping hole where once there hung a door. Hoarse cawing of rooks as homeward they fly To nest in the deserted towers. What was once the proud seat of a high blooded king Is now a lonely ruin, deserted By all save the bats and birds of the wing. It is now an abode filled with ghosts. The people of an ancient, forgotten time Inhabit its mouldering halls of gloom. The skilled voice of a bard chanting his rhyme, The spectral melody of his harp. The clammy walls of a somber banqueting hall Now echo with the ghostly talk and jests Of a noble company who were all Lords and ladies of highest degree. There once were rushes strewn thickly on this hard floor, Bright tapestries adorned these barren walls, This empty hole once framed a stout oak door... This was once the seat of a great king.

Flashing of spears in the rising sun, The snorting of chargers, The tension of battle not yet won. Clanking of swords and jingle of mail, Whisper of a morning breeze, The grim knowledge that life is so frail. The blare of trumpets calling to war, Every man feels the doubt, Is unsure at his heart's very core. Who, this night, will return to his band? Who will be sought vainly? Who will be touched by death's dreaded hand? Whose bones will be left on the cold ground, Mouldering in decay, Destined this day to be deathward bound? Who will return to wife and to farm, To till the friendly earth, Raise his bairn in a place safe from harm? Who?