Mists of Ruse

a bitter ache grows deep on this craggy soul
it rises up from stories old,
what once was fresh now seems so stale
and colours rich have begun to pale

memory stamps with heavy feet,
on dust and desert and ancient wheat

we broke our bread on precious stone
a king and queen of a comely throne
we spread our trinkets far and wide
as joy retreating with the tide

now resonate alone once more
while the children scramble at the door

the battle’s passed, no war won
the knitted knots cannot be undone
we wear the clothes of the newly spoiled
as the worried father bends and toils

the fathoms hot that began to fuse
are cooling now in the mists of ruse

the fathoms hot that began to fuse
are cooling now in the mists of ruse

MChallis © 1997/20014