Twas twenty some odd years past four sevens
when Armstacry’s too, were settling
in brilliant light – dangled free
as the southernmost maple tree.
habit twas what they whispered
between half twice and graying whiskers
twas half beaten wives of only five – twice
who made such sacrifice, as three simply
vanished on a dark dreary night.
Then, brilliant stars shone on a field
Armstacry – kicked the moon
shapes of glass – flickered a bit;
one nightly stroll twas quite a fit.
A gathering of people from the town,
laughed at Armstacry – as the fog lifted
a mangled body lay –
lost track of stars which lightened night –
brought Armstacry on a fateful walk.
Alas, mighty wounds were left to signal
– would not disappear
as Armstacry, silent beneath moonlit skies;
slipping through its’ dark habitat
Be strong against the mighty hand, who
slings above their head a mighty blow, to
snatch one so innocent, to tie in ropes and
how whimsical, not despair, to stare.
Still the mighty wind begins to shake
to0 soon, a maple tree –
as brilliant stars shine on the crest for
Armstacry, four times; all seven die.
Fantastic! “kicked the moon /shapes of glass” – I love it Nancy. It has something in it that is quite “whimsical, not despair.” Really good.
Thanks Konrad, and I had a wonderful time dreaming this one up in my head. Sincerely, Nancy