The Washer (1st draft)
By Gwion
Above the banks Of the shallow ford You Wove, in steady slaps, The End Scrubbing at your rocks Flannel, thirsty Worn to strips of rags And Bones, thirsty You saw A thousand marching warriors Armies of horses Battle-Ravens You kept pace With the war-drums Beating a rhythm With each Slap Of cloth on Stone Water On rock On scarlet rock On a rock that screamed prophecy You washed clean each word Of False hope Water red with blood Flowing south Past fallen cities To be lost In a vast, Angry sea. Written March 12th, 2002 © on Mar 12 2002 02:45 PM PST 0 • 10
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"Above the banks..."