Bright skies of black and white are whipped,
By winds that gust and never cease,
Shadows stalk across the fields,
The heads of wheat are not at peace.
Flat land stretches featureless,
Out to where the earth may end,
No heights to see what may approach,
No fortress to defend.
The only break in this bleak land,
Is a windmill old and battered,
With sails long since torn away,
And glassless windows shattered.
By the door there sits a man,
Face weathered by long days,
Who surveys all the land around,
With a tired, steady gaze.
He expects an altercation,
Out here on this stricken land,
Far away from anywhere,
He's prepared to make a stand.
It's his belief that come the night,
That evil will appear,
He can't express its shape or form,
Or hide his naked fear.
A candle is his only tool,
To keep the night at bay,
And as the twilight settles in,
He hopes for one more day.
Composed 25/07/2013
