The phantom poet returns….
Another phantom poem was delivered to Descent-World hq last night. We heard the letterbox flap, bit when we went to see who it was the street was empty, filled only by the soft orange glow of halogen.
Upon our return, we found this, hand scrawled and clearly marked with For eyes only.
However, we’ve decided to share it at our own peril….
There upon the cliff he stood, a ruby on his finger and a crown on his head,
The armada turned and fled,
For his sword was won from a foe in the battle for Christendom;
Rolling the dice,
The time to land a six and depart the table had come;
To the south and the rolling hills, a beast bred for fighting great things were promised but an conquistador knocking at his door opened new horizons;
A chasm he could not bridge,
His loss turned to gain as he headed into the hills under his own steam;
The sound of the BDA was strong, his ears rang, it was a calling he must ignore for a year yet;
Mild mannered yet wild, an honorary prince for over 700 days, skies of granite for a change to sand and sky allured.
A memory to honour, a union forged by a workmens friend,
The return is nigh.
What on earth does it mean?