Poised on edge of wood,
To open field,
Grey riders with ambush intent,
Not to yield.

Guns crack, cannons roar,
Rebels duck yet courage soars.
Father fighting along with son,
Though some fourteen, their manhood won.

A distant call to attack,
A sea of blue upon horseback,
Charging hordes of blue-bellied scum,
Cutless drawn upon the run.

Pitchforks, knives and scraps of wood,
To face the cutless as only courage could.
A ghostly grey shadow crossing the plain,
Amongst the mud, blood, guts and rain.

Surrounded by the clash of steel,
The cutless finds the flesh that yields.
Mortal wounds and bloodied stains,
A severed hand still clutching reigns.

The bloodied grey coats on the run,
Retreat to forest with the fleeing sun.
Regrouped in darkness, the battle paused,
To tend new wounds and festered sores.

Betrayed, bedraggled rebel troops,
Clothing tattered and bursting boots,
Dry at the mouth, stomachs tight,
Escape through swamp in pale moonlight.

Nigel L. Spark
2/1/1996

Recommend this article...