Dark tree tops tousled by an angry wind,
The seething sky a drab and doomful grey;
While in the distance roiling clouds ride in,
With piercing raindrops leading up the fray.
A cannon flash does crack the waxing gloom,
Soon followed by the roll of distant drums;
The line approaching like some fierce dragoons,
Grim specters of the strife that surely comes.
But you are gone—I welcome frenzied might;
Would that some dreadful god now strike me down,
Or yet some warrior’s sabre forged of light,
Now run me through that all my pain be done;
Then love bereft, I meet my Waterloo—
With my last breaths still singing songs of you.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.