Byron's basement

Here be dragons (& perhaps Indians, pianos, French, moderns, gambits of every nationality, etc.)

At the bottom of a well of my own creation, I look up and

wait for now, alone.

While on the sea floor, far below, the kraken sleeps, oblivious. What event could Tennyson it to stir?

           Sharp tooth

Watcher of the land , keen of smell and eye

The growl rising , alerts the sentry

noticing the warning has been heeded

Sharp of tooth flanks the interloper

a shout of action , the fleeing feet

but what a sight for the intruder to meet

the pictish hound bares its teeth

our animals are safe from the would be thief

little is known what he did with the bones

but still around the settlement

sharp of tooth roams , ever vigilant always there

Picts rest easy in his care

                    The call

Far above they soar

winged masters of the air

Watching waiting to alert us to

the danger that is yet to approach

We will set the ambush

In good time before they know

so assured they trespass

but for them this will be their end

we stand as defenders of this land

all who call it home are under our protection

 a few may fall to the invaders assault

but the invader will never celebrate

as their heads adorn our trophy poles

Clad in tattered clothes

Yet welcome wherever they go

Asking little but

bread wine and a place by the fire

Surrounded with joy

the bard tells the tales of the people

but the bard knows the time is near

Cantlos comes , Autumn's here

so as the breath turns to misty vapour

and the rich brown earth turns to frost

the bard readies a winter shelter

And the sun will soon rise again

And the bard will continue the journey

                             Samhain

  It draws me out the moon so bright

 the brittle grass tells my tread

 as wet the snowdrops pearl my eyes

and wash away the year gone by

and bring so close to the beauty of death

waiting for the coming rebirth

this night this moon makes me so warm

i dance in time with the flurry of the storm

We bring in the oxen from the moors ,

the grains now fill the winter stores

some we ferment ,some we grind

starvation will not be in our childrens eyes

our stronghold walls have been repaired

our spears are free of dulling blood

the snow will fall and block the ways

the enemy takes to reach our gates

so let us sit beside the fire

in laughter , music and tall tales

the romans they wish for warmer climes

whilst we just love the time of Samhain