A BATTLE'S FOLLY 

A shadowy fear held the riderless steeds

o'er earth's pounding heart, while beneath their hooves

battered limbs and weapons, aggression's grim souvenirs,

lay everywhere like scattered weeds;

remnants of a sorry day.

They met at dawn 'neath an ice blue sky;

pennants fluttered on staffs held high,

supported by a roar that grew

from a thousand throats the battle cry

that on this day the foe would die.

Men merged together like folded fingers,

Swords and shields a raging cacophony.

Blood soaked soil and screams that lingered

in the clotted air that death expelled

on the multitudes whose time was nigh.

No sound of trumpet now nor threatening bellows,

instead the cry of ambition mislead.

Above the scene, with hungry eye on carrion,

the avian victors of the folly circle

the vanquished survivors among the dead.

Where now embellishments of certain victory,

the promises of pomp and glory?

Where now the dreams of daring deeds

gone and gone on this sorry day

retold in song and story?

Abandoned on the blood soaked lea,

no rider in the saddle. No one left

to take the reins, a headless herd, their purpose done

save trampling on the sodden ground.