The Saxon Age By Nathanael K. Stottlemyer

I remember

The gull’s cry as he wheels above salty shore,

A cloak of mist wrapped round sand and sea,

The crunch of sand beneath boots and the clink of mail, driving rain,

Long marches under heavy packs and long nights on the cold ground,

The sight of distant villages, the roar of uncharted waters, and the crumbling towers of an

empire long forgotten.

–

I recall

Great battles, kingdom against kingdom, army against army, man against man,

The clash of sword upon mail, lance upon shield. The sounds of the wounded and dying and

the hoarse cry of the crows circling above,

Feats of great men on bleak days, where the only victor was death,

The cries of fury and fire, of wrath and ruin. The oaths of honor, truth, and courage,

That I swore on the sword of liege.

–

Listen

As the days grow short and winter rails against these four walls,

As I speak of names, see faces that you do not know.

The tales I tell are not stories shared to pass the storms,

They are your past, the ghost of what is soon to come.