Long become the shadows,
Which weigh upon the walls,
Where jagged stone stands tall,
And throned by Ivy as it crawls.
Sentry's line the battlements,
Their bodies clad in mail,
With bows and sharpened arrows,
Which all but seldom fail.

The crickets and the bull frogs,
Call out but no one heeds,
All Eyes are fixed upon,
The rising glow beyond the trees.
A cloud of dusted kicked up muck,
And the subtle sounds of steeds,
The familiar sounds of banner men,
Hellbent on wicked deeds.

The children scream
With a fiendish struggle,
As they're torn from dreams
To a squeamish huddle,
They're rushed to the keep
Through the streets and puddles,
As whispers weep of treats and cuddles,

Every sconce is now ablaze,
And the bridge is up and the pitch is made,
Both him and her with tankards raised,
In a boast, they toast to happy days.

A stout parade, and a maze of tents,
A thousand strong with ill intent,
As the hours passed, they grew,
From strength to strength.
And troops in fitted boots were placed
In strategic predetermined places,
Faces hooked and bent from hatred,
Stood in line, as if sedated,

A shining sea of silk like mail,
Reflects the moon in a milky pale,
A sight which could overcome the frail,
But even to the keenest eyes,
It could make them fault and fail.
A sea of steel, as sharp as nails,
The kind they talk about in tales,
The kind that smells like spells and holy grails.

And deep inside the walls they knew,
This rendezvous was overdue,
The prophecy was ringing true,
Those scrawling words, upon the wall,
Behind the chapel pews.
Older than the oldest crones,
Older than the dusted bones,
Which lay inside the tombs behind their homes.

The words they spoke of Ivy's grip,
And a glow beyond a thicket,
It spoke about a sea of steel
When the bull frogs sing with crickets,
It warned of death and stench and fog,
And the downward tails of frightened dogs.
It cautioned like a fairytale,
And swooned of moonlight milky pale.
The sickly scrawl described the fright,
And the frigid, arid winter night,
And a frost that bites both bone, and stone to shale.

The tents outside, like tattered monks
Without no corn or loot for sale.
As the weekends turn to months,
Their ranks could all but fail.
Infection rooting in their boots,
The food is all but stale.
And as time goes by,
They will hunt the cunts and coots who harbour ale.

But deep inside the ivy walls,
Beyond the icy moat,
The people thrive and prosper,
With seasoned means to gloat.
They knew they could wait out their foes,
With feet Succumbed to ooze,
whose bodies now grow frail and weak,
With ill-er fitting shoes.
Outside they dined on mouldy bread,
Inside the children snoozed.

Although the crops were long gone,
And their corn had turned to ash,
The city folk drank cider,
With pies of apple Nash.
A feast for the protectors,
The city, with a Grail,
The kind that holds a secret,
The kind you hear in tales,

The people held a relic,
That could feed or starve a nation,
With just a single piece of fruit,
From the Orchard of creation.
The kind of fruit that makes men,
Fight and carve and cleave,
Like spectres in the shadows,
Without plans to ever leave,

Led by love and envy,
By gluttony, lust and greed,
To covet even just a single seed,
From the eternal Apple of eve.


Instagram.com/Yellowgrenade
© James Moynihan