Thank you, Jane, for your guidance on this wonderful, November journey. And now, for the thirtieth…
“And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,” —W.B. Yeats
The first chill is in the air. The last withered leaves scatter in a passing Autumn breeze. The lake swirls in laconic ripples, a dancer leaning back in her partner’s arms. The sun hangs just above the high hills beyond it.
Winter comes. With it, our bloodshed ends. The mad general we followed across the seas reaped the iron he sowed in the last battle of Autumn. We left him on the field of battle he loved so well, a feast for the ravens that he made of so many of us. Then we walked away, each along his own path. Mine led here.
Together, we buried my blood-drenched sword at the edge of the lake. I built the homestead we share beside it. Our children will play on its banks as I fish and grow our first grain. For after too long a life spent in war, I will live the rest of it in peace.
Here, in this land that I came with a horde to conquer. In this land that I now call home.
aroma of stewed rabbit
from our caldron
the gentlest snow
begins to fall
for Jane Doughterty’s A Month with Yeats: Day Thirty