A poem by Rowan Blair Colver
His wooden staff dampened by the inch of fresh mud which sheaths its tip,
Knotted flesh of branch scar and thorough grained twists from light echoes,
In remembrance. A sullen tone from a throat above the ground mist,
Condensation billows like the breath of a water dragon and gradually meets.
Some sinking footprints re-adjust from a pivot of posture in thicking rains,
Another note spills forward among the ashen smoke again. In time,
Did you hear the drum?
Like the sky in motion, the thunderous call of percussion sounds.
He takes a step forward, proud, repeating aloud the words of his song.
It was thunder. With another brisk plunge of the crutch, the stability provider,
With crystalline core as a handle grasped in weather worn skin,
Still living, and grime neath pith to the quick and a tremor.
A mal-adjusted dilemma, no more to walk.
There is a door. Did you see it in the brief illumination from the crackling sky?
Or.. the sentinel falls.
Rowan Blair Colver