from the east
a wind, alive, singing
sweeps through the forests,
unknown, unheaded
leaves shivering, golden-green
branches swaying in a quiet roar
a sky-filled sea.
two wanderers
walking in shadows, deep
the moon above
voluptuous, full, and bright;
in silence, side by side
their pace is steady
within the blues and greys
of ghostly light
sticks on stone, soil
where the climb is far too steep.
a cottage, large
stands silent, bright
at the edge of wooded darkness
where the wanderers stop
the taller one knocks.
the door slides open,
an old man speaks
forehead glistening in the firelight.
a question, an answer
a quiet exchange,
the door opens wider
warmth and scents and voices
and they enter with sighs, relieved.
like others eating, drinking,
some looking, speaking
a table is given
with food, steaming
rice and eel, and stews,
vegetables, soup
and cool, fresh beer.
eating in silence to reach their fill
they speak no word
nor  raise a glass, one to the other
yet in a flare of fire
black and silver, hidden
flash bright
revealing hilt and scabbard –
all of which the old man sees.
the platters empty
the cups refilled,
the taller pays, nodding
when asked if they have eaten their fill.
back at the fire
the coinage, bright
clearly curved, recognised
the old man knows, delighted
but to be sure,
he bites each one.
after all are bitten
there is no doubt
the winds have risen,
the tides have changed
the time has come.
in the room, received
mats fresh like grass
mattresses unrolled, candle lamps
a small coal stove
for the old man knows
they who have come must never be cold.
stealth tempered with time
the old man hides
parts a crevice, and sees in light
the two who came
with promises engraved
in hilt and scabbard
black and silver, clear and bright.
and the old man slips
swiftly, swiftly to his wife
whispers fiercely what he knows
the winds have risen,
the tides have changed
the black and silver, flashing white.
it is now, it is now
he dances, almost
joyous to live so long
to see and know
what had long been spoken
now it was just to wait
for the first gong.
and the wife smiles
nodding, disbelieving
convinced of folly
yet indulges with patience:
till the first gong promised
the old man must curtail his praise
and so he does
and the morning dawns
where hooded and silent
the wanderers depart,
but the old man stands
at the edge of darkness,
smiling, certain
that the winds have risen
that the time has come
against all odds
for he had seen what lay
in black and silver, promised, engraved
clear in the firelight.
© 2015 threegoodwords
three good words 