by Gideon Burton
A sword of hardened fire, blue with heat,
with scars of ash along its molton throat;
his arm upraised, his weapon, hissing, floats
in aiming hesitation. When the meat
is hacked is hacked in butcher brutal beats,
beneath the steely yielding shield the coats
of sweaty fear in reddened rivers smoke
the torn and tearing tissues of defeat.
Am I the warrior, leaning on my blade,
then heaving slaughtered bodies into piles?
Am I the anvil, ringing from the blows,
my sometime spirit fading into shade?
Inflicting and deflecting in the flow;
I only know to stop defeats, defiles.
Photo: flickr - Andy Saxton2006