Wednesday, May 11, 2016

Austin Belanger writes

The Clearing

The cool dark earth

And a misty damp wind,
He lies wrapped in his cloak,
Head propped on a canvas pack,
Surveying the beauty of the heavens,
Stars all set as distant gems in the obsidian sky,
Glittering in the perfect darkness,
Save for the light,
Of a moon too full.
With an appreciative smile, sleep crept up
Like a rogue in the night,
Eyelids slowly closing his view of the contented scene,
Deep breathing achieved.
Wrapped in his cloak,
Now snug and warm against the damp,
With a blade readied by his side,
But as if in a dream,
Or when magic fills the air,
An ozone scent of lightning past,
He wakes, unsure,
Startled at the sight he beholds,
Lighting into the meadowed clearing, not far from where he lay,
An ancient soul, eternally young,
With an everlasting light, bright and warm.
Gossamer were her wings that carried her there,
The face of an angel,
But eyes that spoke of many lives.
Turning ever-so-slightly, while speaking her words,
As if absent-mindedly acknowledging the gaped-mouth mortal child
Who is now covered in his cloak,
Peering through the brush as if a keyhole,
Eyes wide as silver coins,
A wildly beating heart,
With labored breath
And shaking sword hand,

She speaks with the voice of nature,
Her songs, a symphony of the birds,
Blessing the ground with her rites,
The air seems lighter,
The clearing brighter!
The very trees bow and shroud

And peace falls upon the scene.
Turning toward her spy, although her eyes now closed,
She continues her chanting,
Smiling wide, as if satisfied
At the fact that he could no longer grip his blade
Or, perhaps, no longer wished to,
And then she is done,
She bows courteously,
Speaking words he cannot know.
But comprehending in his heart,
Face now toward the obsidian sky,
Moonbeams of argent light
Now focus upon her person
As the crux of her holy place,
Lifting her toward the stars
And out of his view.

Pinching his already wakened cheeks for verity
And questioning his sanity,
Or how much mead he had truly consumed,
He decides that he has seen a holy thing.
Wiping tears from his eyes, but not from a heavy heart,
He slept no more that night.
Staring again at the stars in a different light,
Knowing she had joined them
And had left him here to face the day.

With her words in his heart.

 The Knight And The Faerie -- Daniel Eskridge


  1. I love the picture that you selected! Pretty much a perfect fit!

    1. Yes, I was quite surprised. It's almost as though you were looking at this picture as you wrote your poem.


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