The Snarling-Fucking-Hounds Of The Battlefield… Draw Closer

… and cue the Crwth strokes
as the boat oars,
dip, and slide…
the Shore approaches us,
and vice versa…
I smell urine in the air,
it’s sweet,
which represents
Excitement…
Fear is more dank and musty.

The distant Drumming,
can be felt,
slightly more than heard,
in present position
… it is now a Marker.
I answer myself,
in my own eagerness,
with “Fuck Their God.”

My Brother is arms length,
and will stay standing-so,
until Focus dissipates
into a Bloody Victory.
I already know, by heart,
each and every first ‘Move’
my Kinsmen will make
… upon Battle Horn
unleashing… like Devils…
the Barbarian Ancestry
which waits within our Souls.

Paul Tristram is a widely published Welsh writer, who’s currently up to his elbows in Magic, and long may it remain this way. Read other articles by Paul, or visit Paul's website.