A Powerful Foe

This poem is based on an account of a battle in a journal of an English soldier part of an occupational force in Scotland.

 

A Powerful Foe

 

An English soldier stands alone,

In an English fort which stands alone,

Amidst a forest,

On Scottish land.

Oppressing centuries of tradition,

Suppressing a culture,

Withholding a people.

 

For the past three hours he has stood watch,

A useless gesture,

The fog is thick in Scotland.

It swirls among the surrounding trees,

Mingling with smoke of torch and campfire.

Thickening,

Concealing.

 

It is well near dawn,

Relief from this chore is coming.

No more straining into the misty woods.

The soldier is tired now,

Ready to return to warm bedding,

To be rid of this wet chill,

Of a Scottish morning,

In the Highland hills.

 

What is this?

Some odd sound from the forest,

So low,

Is it imagination?

It is growing now,

Louder, piercing the still air,

like a Godforsaken wail.

 

No need for alarm

It is only a noise...

But what could create such a sound?

Not any voice.

Not any instrument.

The heart pounds quickly.

Throbbing into the night

 

An echo returns,

A steady pounding reverberating through the trees

Not a heart but a drum

beating out a permanent tattoo

etched forever into the nightmares of the soldiers

fog concealing the source.

One drum turns into two

two multiplies, until hundreds of drums are on the move.

Some force closes in on the now frightened fort.

 

But the fog is lifting,

the shadowy forms of trees are becoming visible in the thinning fog

this disgusting frightful fog is fleeing before the light of day

Hiding as it has hidden others

It fears the burning touch of sun

It will not do battle

Only retreat

 

A single torch flame illuminates a solitary figure

Standing alone among the trees

A massive man once concealed by fog

Thought just another tree trunk

Revealed by torch light.

He wears no armor

Only a scrap of cloth slung about his shoulder

His only weapon, a titanic blade.

Half again as long as half of himself

 

What manner of man goes to battle with no armor?

What manner of man could wield that weapon?

No living man would dare.

No living man could.

This shrouded figure alone in the torchlight

Could it be?

Some ghostly warrior fallen in past battle

Come to take revenge.

Alone?

 

The torch lowers to the ground slowly

A great fire erupts forth

Rapidly circling

like a rabid wolf

Encircling the camp.

More figures step forward

Surrounded by these strange barbarians.

Drums increasing, never ceasing.

What once was a wail now an angry shriek.

Swords rise into position

Axe blades glint in the firelight, like fangs of a hungry wolf

These unearthly warriors stare out of the fleeing fog.

Angry eyes

Eyes of hate and loathing,

Piercing armor and flesh

Staring into frightened souls

 

In unison their battle cry rises

A cry of hate,

A cry of grief,

A cry of death.

One thought dominates the Englishman's thoughts,

In unison one word breaks into the English ranks

Run!

 

Fear is a sharp weapon.

Hate a strong armor.

Grief a strong leader.

Together they create a powerful foe.