Defenders of the Realm Act III

(Read Act II here.)

Come dawn and a threadbare breakfast,
the men set out to find the menace
and fix the problem at its source
before it could take flight again.

Having never trekked overland,
they were a lost and tired band,
with no navigators to hand
they reached the nearest village,
untouched by the dragon's fury,
free from its wanton pillage,
overrun with rat spillage.

At lunch Aled had a tipoff,
info he couldn't just write off,
about a cave in the green hills
where the wyrm had made his lair.

Telling the others of this news
and with not a moment to lose,
and no time to enjoy the views
they headed for the green hills,
following a sprightly stream
to the cave in the green hills
where they hoped to make their kill.

They reached the cave upon the hour,
its dark mouth ominous and dour,
but did not enter for terror
of the beast living within.

So they set about conspiring,
their strategic now firing,
and just as the friends were tiring
a thought entered Aled's head
which turned into a careful plan
certain to get them ahead,
but it filled Aled with dread.

They gathered firewood from the woods,
their servants helping where they could,
and laid it at the cave entrance
from one end to the other.

The wyrm must have been in slumber,
naive to the inbound lumber,
then its sleep was torn asunder
when Fergal torched the kindling,
the flames towering in a row,
air full of cinders sizzling,
choking all who dwelt within.

When the fires died and the smoke cleared
the four friends rose and drew near
to the mouth of the cave to see
the dragon's lifeless corpse.

Yet much to their amazement,
instead of the dragon's encasement
for them to win appraisement
were corpses on the floor,
corpses covered in long brown fur
strewn all about the cave floor,
a sight the friends all abhorred.

Aled had heard of these before,
the memory came to the fore.
They were woodwoses or wild men
from church engravings of yore.

While struggling to recognise
his accidental genocide,
Aled saw with his smoke-strained eyes
some footprints headed outside,
leading to the edge of the trees
where the lucky one could hide
and find others of his kind.

(Continued in Act IV here.)

Defenders of the Realm Act II

(Read Act I here.)

They arrived at the castle late,
a fortress frail and in dire straits
with foundations which were flaking
from attacks by the vile wyrm.

They met a man named Burbage,
who looked to Aled a durbage,
a man with no room for verbiage
who tended his mottled perm,
a butler minding the castle
tending to his half-arsed perm,
a man proud a dully firm.

The four friends set about their work,
snubbing Burbage's pompous smirk,
thinking how best to kill a beast
they had never seen before.

Gethin put archers on the walls,
Hywel guessed the dragon would fall
to some unjustly small axes
he bought from the smith next door.
Fergal brought in some trebuchets
to line the castle walls.
Aled just rolled his eyeballs.

They decided to get practice,
as they all did somewhat lack it
in any way of weaponry
or the forms of martial skill.

Gethin's archery went sideways,
he aimed as how one stargazes,
he hit two men in their faces
while his friends joined for the thrill,
joined for the thrill of shooting arrows
lined with finely trimmed quills,
and aimed at Burbage's frill.

Night fell over the Pennine hold,
and very soon the friends were told
that the dragon had been sighted
flying to the castle walls.

Gethin's archers were set aflame,
the dragon-fire put stone to shame,
and Fergal commenced his mad game
of flinging rocks at its hide,
rocks which hit everything
bar the dragon's armoured hide,
debris flying on all sides.

Then Hywel saw an opening,
charged through the wreckage smouldering
to clout the dragon with his axe
when it tried to eat him raw.

With a screech to deafen whistles,
like a cat caught in the thistles,
the beast took off like a missile
soaring up into the night,
leaving Hywel to boast and brag
for what was left of the night,
claiming he was proven right.

(Continued in Act III here.)

Defenders of the Realm Act I

Aled, Hywel, Fergal, Gethin,
three Welsh, one Irishman settling
in the village he arrived in,
farming in the fields of Wales.

Yet when a prince who claimed the throne
arrived on shores not far from home,
the four friends feared raiders would roam
with the likely threat of war,
the ever-present shadow which
often knocks upon men's doors,
threats which grew across the moors.

They hoped to make a run for it,
and have nothing to do with it.
King Richard would grant no permit
but would not drag them to war.

But just as they made their treaty,
messengers arrived discreetly
and set their stall to entreaty
any bold men to step forth,
as the King needed the aid of
Welshmen if they would step forth
to help with problems up north.

The four friends took their chance quickly,
and travelled across roads strictly
to a time-frame that would see them
meet his grace in the grand hall.

And so King Richard did meet them,
and quite quick to beseech them,
he needed all and each of them
to help a castle in thrall,
in thrall to a pesky dragon
which was tearing down the walls,
a beast with a lot of gall.

The King left them with instructions,
to which they had some compunctions,
that they must slay the great dragon
while he was fighting on the field.

If it was dead before victory,
the King promised no trickery,
he would reward them handsomely
once he returned home from the field,
returned with the head of Henry,
after winning on the field,
returned home with nought to yield.

(Continued in Act II here.)

Happy National Poetry Day + Mametz Wood Update

Once again it's National Poetry Day, and safe to say the poetry world is still as busy as ever. It's been a bit busier than usual on this blog as well, with two new poems in the last couple of weeks and a few more to come. The next installment of Frynwys Features is on it's way, as Frynwys has been a bit livelier of late, and I have a few other projects on the go as well. One project that I'm sorry to say has experienced a fair few delays has been my Mametz Wood project, but as something special for National Poetry Day, I thought I'd share with you some of the work in progress. The following is a draft of a poem which sets out the basis of the full poem I'm attempting to write. Hope you enjoy, and have some good poetry-related celebrations (if that stuff goes on and the like). See you again soon!

Mametz Wood First Draft

Ahead of the trenches
sits the wood itself.
A fortress of trees
on a small hill.
Coils of barbed wire
spiralling outwards,
carving up the mud.
Nest of machine guns
and snipers perched
atop the fire-steps
as sharp-sighted
as birds of prey,
hidden by the trees.

Gods of the Sundarbans

There is a place where three rivers
pour into the Bay of Bengal.
Merging in a vast forest,
they wind their way through
the soaking delta of the Sundarbans.

Mangroves line the creeks
with their rib-like roots.
By day otters swim in the waters,
deer quench their thirst while
macaques watch from the trees.

Night falls, turning the streams
into mirrors of moonlight.
They catch the reflection of a solitary tiger.
It lurks in its forest refuge,
guarded by the coast.

Men sometimes see the tiger at night
as they fish the mangroves
or gather kindling from the forest.
It can swim through creeks and rivers
to kill them on their boats.

The boats rest at the beaches tonight.
No one intrudes on the forest
lest the tiger should appear.
It spies the boats on the shore
and retreats into the shadows.

The Bear of Mysore

after Kenneth Anderson, Man-Eaters and Jungle Killers

The last light of day leaves the fields.
A blazing torch flickers through
the darkness on the road in Mysore.
A woodcutter on his way home
hears a snort somewhere ahead
and the crush of figs under heavy paws.

He approaches the noise through the trees
and spots a figure in the brush.
There is a flash of black fur
in the glare of the woodcutter's torch.
Long claws blunted on termite mounds
lunge out and the fire is gone.

The morning light reveals a corpse.
Red coils protruding from a stomach,
eyes and nose bitten out and ripped
from their vacant sockets,
and a bloody tapestry of muscle
where there was once a face.

Two Seas

Out in the hot wastes
sun swelters scorched sands,
sidewinders, beetles,
highways of the dunes.

Silhouettes in haze,
herds of elephants
weary and weathered
track down waterholes
one trek at a time.
Lions shadow them,
envying the chance
to snatch a young calf.

Fresh dew disperses
on the crested dunes,
white breakers rolling,
a mirage far west.