You, too, have come where the dim tides are hurled
Upon the wharves of sorrow, and heard ring
The bell that calls us on; the sweet far thing.’ —W.B. Yeats
A Blood Rose Victory
The stars fall as the last light of day fades. Tails of fire light up the coming darkness. Even the heavens mourn.
We stand among our fallen. I see the friends I laughed with a fortnight ago. How we laughed at our own bawdy stories by the fire, passing the ale horn around. Now, their last expressions of surprise and sorrow are all they show. All to possess a land whose cost we cannot bear.
The bell rings now. I know not who brought it, or where from. It’s clang echoes across this windswept plain. The Tuatha De Danann have fled, and the song of the bell will surely keep them away.
It just fails to console us that lie exhausted among our dead on this field of our victory.
tears on this wharf of sorrow
the shattered ale horn rots
beside my friend’s marred hand
The November Meteors by Étienne Léopold Trouvelot, 1868
UPDATE: And for dVerse poets pub MTB: Symbolism (12/7/17)