Finis Coronat Opus

Lords and kings in castle halls, Throned within their fortress walls, With their crowns upon their heads And their armies strongly led, Reign in glory known abroad, With such fame as dear is sought. Yet, behind the gilded throne, Who ensures the king is known; Or, in secret, plots the paths That the armies tread at last, Setting lords in grander halls Or sending them in chains, as thralls? Who, then, holds the greatest sway, The kings and lords, or councils grey Whose knowledge reaches through the gleam  Of swords, and crowns, and satin sheen? Do throne and scepter rulers make? Or do the students, grim, of Fate?

Nestled on a window seat, With cup of tea on table neat, Reclines a figure, deep engrossed In pages yellow, torn, and old. Sunlight beams upon the leaves Where printed words are barely seen, But carry such a power vast That decades since have held them fast. The silent figure sits and reads For hours, in the book’s reprieve From hardships constant, dreary, cold, And lives in mind’s adventures bold.

A moment calm, Before the raining torrents fall And stormclouds rise in fearful squall Above the quiet land. A moment calm, When trees stand still as frozen spires That point to fading sun’s red fire Before it drowns in cloud. A moment calm,  When new-sprung grasses seem so green, And budding flowers’ colored sheen Bring brightness to the ground. A moment calm, As storm above rains on dry land, Though loud and fearsome is its hand, There’s beauty in its wake.

‘Neath the golden rays of sun Where rippling brook its way does run Through the trees that now awake With the springtime light of day, There, fairies oft’ abound. With the greening of the trees, The opening buds, unfurling leaves, The squirrels and rabbits scurry through The cool and damp of morning dew That pixies there arrange. Amid the smallest creatures fair, The fairies toil, and slowly, where The cold of winter late had been, The glorious springtime now begins Upon the forest floor.

Night descends on hamlet small, Quiet fills the empty halls, Stars emerge in darkened skies, Winking with their silvery eyes. Children have been laid in bed, After stories grand are read, And the lamps all dimmed have been, As windows rattle in the wind. At the strike of five past two, Something stirs in each bedroom, Rising in the dimness cast By walls, and doors, and hallways vast. For, at such times here and there,  Shadows wake from year to year, Leaving for one evening, so, Their masters made of flesh and bone. Close to walls they float and glide,  (Light they cannot long abide), Through the street, ‘neath roofs and eaves They whisper soft, like falling leaves. To the faery hollow they Wend their silent, wispy way, There to dance, and merry make Through the night, ’til break of day. There, beneath the shade of pines Do the Shadows feast and dine And drink their punch from acorn caps, And sip on dew from starlit flax. Alas, the sun will rise ‘ere long, And cast his rays up...

Two trees in moorland dreary stand, Amid a grey and forlorn land, Gorse and heather long since gone,  As is sparrow’s sweet birdsong. Years have passed since saplings young Bent ‘mid storms that threatened long To fell them swiftly, ‘neath the winds And torrents great that battered them. But close the trees had planted been, (By chance, or Fate, or Providence), And when the rains and tempests raged, The branches intertwined did stay And strengthened both the saplings; now, Though years have passed, and winds have howled, Together stand the trunks, as one, Twisted, strengthened, by the storm.

Footsteps mark a winding path Through a forest grey, Creeping to and fro beneath  Skies of winter day. Soon, the travelers hope, ‘ere long, Sun will show his face, And somber clouds, so grey and wan, Will swiftly float away. Amid the forest dim and dark, Such hopes could seem amiss; But never yet has Time been marked Without fair Springtime’s kiss.