Sword Play/Sword Rest

Lazy days in the pavilion, soft blankets below, soft blue skies above
the smells of cook fires and lavender, the warmth of the sun
as it heats the side of the pavilion walls, the wind gently causing them to move
in and out like the sail of a boat, gliding on quiet water with the surface of glass.

We sit, with paper and quill in hand, and glasses of mead cooled by earthenware cups
and write of the challenges of the day, the clash of skill and strategy.
We reminisce of days and warriors and others we have known,
and of battles yet to be fought; smiles on our faces at these prospects.

Staffs and swords lie nearby, the never ending practice session just around a corner.
Pillows for rest and tomes of new methods for war are ever present.
Occasional conversation and laughter is a standard as well, as is the solving of
the world’s problems under this tent.

These are the days of summer, followed by those famous summer nights
bonfires and battle, ladies in camp finery, mead flowing like water.
Our companions, tried and true by fire and ice, all gather as night comes.
Stories are read, tales of bravery and honor and life, and we know all is well.

Mark these days, good sirs, for they will not pass again.
There is no second chance for memory making at the Pavilion.
But we are of the kind who live every moment we are alive,
so this warning is truly unwarranted, for souls like ours that burn
with a clear, true flame.

Sword Play/Sword Rest

Thyme

Joined March 2011

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Poem

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