The Dead of Winter

Winter's come; the snow has fallen,
Dead silence --- land full of forgiveness and pardon.
Tranquil peace. Time stands still,
With waters frozen and birds flying nil.
This tranquil scene, this beautiful place
Holds a nightmare yet unseen,
Of light catching, metal gleaming,
Of horses trotting, of mail clinking.

For men's minds not easily forget,
Of past grudges, insults, and threats.
Blanket the snow like ugly ink upon fleece.
The stage is set for our great tale,
Of men sided with belief; anger that seethes.
A stage with full flags of glory,
Of arrows turning to hail,
Of metal bashing against mail,
Of quick retreats and hasty attacks,
Of War Cries, clashes of the axe,
Of Death and despair, surrender and mercy,
Of the Dead of Winter after a brief burst of fury.

Blue advances first, lines drawn ragged.
Red approaches, boxes and squares.
The colors stop, pause, and stare.
Statues --- silence --- with only flags beating the air,
And the wait, the wait for war.

Arrows from behind, all Blue.
Landing among the Red who respond with steel.
The snow gets painted, red, silver, and blue,
The sky thunders yet no lightning flashes.
Just rain.  Just rain.  Arcing overhead.
All pure in the air but then half dirtied at flight's end.
Then the colors mix --- fire and ice.
So nice to hear, so nice to see,
For a general only, but pure despair
for a commoner like you and me.

Swords clash.
Steel rings.
Flags fall.
Flags rise.
And the snow gets painted, over and over and over.
In layers, in colors, in splashes within several acres,
And what Old Man winter took so long to prepare,
A mortal young man easily commands to end the fray…
And as far as his eye can see,
From once two dense colored forests,
Only left is a few standing trees.