A Crown of White

by Patrick Hayes

My love, it's Spring again, here in this place
You love so well, that loves you ever still,
The pear trees blooming white, and grass again
Shoots forth from soil lain cracked and brown so long.
I hear the birdsong, silent when the snows
Had covered all the land, now sweetly ring
From branches and from thicket, morning's joy
That greets the dawn you mirror when you rise.

It's Spring again, upon this world grown grey
Where cynics rule and gods are held in scorn--
Where such as you and I, who bend our knees
In worship, face the laughter and the sneers,
From even those whose God we claim to share,
For we are not as they. Our candles bright,
Our incense and our golden cups they shun,
And name us heathen in their haughty pride.

But here within our grove, beneath the sun
I kneel with you, and for you, unashamed,
To bow my head, and kiss this ground, and sing
In ancient words that men no longer keep
For fear of what is old, and what has passed.
Now I myself am old, my eyes are tired
From all these years of war and blood and strife;
I leave my sword upon the pathway stones.

Beneath the gate, for sully not this place
I will with such an instrument of death,
Though blessed in service to the Holy Cause;
My shield, with silver Cross two-armed upon
Its battered crimson steel I lay against
The gate itself, to rest as I may not
While still I breathe; my lance, red pennant blown
By breezes swift, across my saddle lays;

My dappled steed I tether far beyond
So that I bring within this sacred ring
No thing of war except my armor, weight
Of mail and leather heavy on my chest,
And these two hands, which can so softly touch--
Which kill, when driven by my weary heart,
On order, or for Right. So very tired
I am of war, of death, so many deaths....

I rise, and seek the bush you planted here,
So long ago, it seems, some former Age:
White roses, sweet and new; their thorny stems
Yield now to me, as nine I gently take,
And with these fingers, old and hard and scarred,
I weave them in a crown, as once I held
To place upon your brow, the day we wed,
As I have every Spring since made for you.

This crown I carry in my arms, and sigh
In sorrow, looking at the sky so blue--
And lay it at your grave, where rest your feet,
Your head, where lies my joy and all my soul
Until the night when I am lain beside
This mound, grass green and young upon its face.
I know you pray for me, and so I wait
Here in this weakened mortal shell for you.

The Author

I'm 26 years old, from Wichita, Kansas, where I have lived all my life, and am a freshman at Wichita State University studying computer science and geology after a long hiatus from school. I work part time as a webmaster and Braille transcription student at the Kansas Braille Transcription Institute. My hobbies are reading (especially fantasy, science, and ancient history), writing, webdesign, and chatting online for extended periods.