No Easy Road

He comes from the citadel, sword at his back
His cloak and his clothing, his hood, all are black
The wind blows the cloak out beside him, a single dark wing
A menace, a mystery, missing a face
A part of the scene, but he’s leaving this place
A last sooty leaf of the autumn gone searching for spring.

The spires of the city, the peak of his hood
Are thorns of his destiny (evil or good?)
The arches behind mock the void where his features should be
While boats in the harbour and birds in the air
The sun in the clouds with a vast stormy flare
Embody the forces of change that he goes to set free.

He’s mounting a hillock, and there in the light
A symbol in stone, like an eye without sight
In which all this cryptic expectancy’s summed and compacted
With growth, just a smattering of sun-silvered frond
To signal renewal emerging beyond The drama of ritual rebirth that is soon to be acted.

We tremble to ponder the paths he must tread
To the fields of the sun from the halls of the dead
With his sword like a cross and the hill like a skull at his feet
But whoever we are and wherever we go
Though our road may be easier, still we must know
The light cast by shadow, and there it is him we shall meet.

Simon MacCulloch lives in London and is a regular contributor to Reach Poetry, The Dawntreader and Sarasvati.

Find more by Simon MacCulloch in the Author Index.