The Aspiring Bard

The fallen giant lies athwart A greening bed of moss, His gnarled skin All traced across By the fairy shapes of ferns. A forlorn figure he appears, Fallen from his estate, So tall and proud Among the great, Master of his domain. His once-strong heart is failing now; Death eating at his core, His sap of life Is in short store, And chills in his old veins. But curling fern strokes his grey face, And moss steals slowly in, Green creeper twines His weathered skin... He does not die alone.

Zhenya and I wrote this poem for Burns Night. If you've never read any of Robert Burns's poetry, this probably won't make any sense to you whatsoever.:) My thought now turns To old Robbie Burns, That craftsman of Scotch ballad. Who wrote a song, So sweet and so long, About a louse-clad bonnet. Who charged a stream ‘Disturb not her dream, My sleeping Highland Mary!’ Who wrote an ode To the entrails stowed Inside a wondrous haggis. We weep and wail At the tragic tale Of the mare who then had none, And shake in fear As we all draw near, To hear of Tam, her rider, Whose tipsy state Caused him to relate A scene of midnight terror. Brave marching tunes That the Scotch dragoons Would strike up with goodly cheer, And tavern rhymes That so many times Were repeated merrily. And what care we Of the quality, When writ in a good Scotch brogue? So here we see The epitome Of a glorious poet!

Purple lining Of a wispy cloud, Golden sunrise Behind a thin shroud Of morning mist. Very slowly, Curling mist takes route To the hollows. Bright sunshine leaps out... Daytime is here.

Brown earth, Waiting beneath its blanket of snow Waiting for the Sun to give it life, Waiting for the first soft glow Of Spring green. Waiting...