People often hinge their writing duties on waiting for inspiration to click. I know I do. Really, it’s just another form of procrastination. Sometimes (most times) inspiration doesn’t hit until you have the first word down, that’s the real hurdle.
While it’s actually the second word in this poem, the first word that came to my mind was “crimson”. Weather, war, romance, regret — funny how they can all be connected so easily to that word.
Also, my fantasy mind got the better of me and I wrote “gnoll” instead of knoll. A shaved gnoll isn’t a bad image, though.
What crimson clouds careen across the shorned [knoll]
and spill their shades to transform the hue–
What dastardly mind could look on such a sight
and not see at least a foreign shape or two.
Such beautiful seas of marigolds grew before the culling,
their buttered tops all guillotined to stumps,
Now reduced to bobbing aimless and decaying
fitting in tandem with the well that lacks a pump.
They’d come here in pairs, naive romantics, hunting thrills
long before the shrapnel deafened the earth–
Seeking to cement some clandestine act on the hill
ahead of the calling, screeching, or war’s ugly birth.
What shadows of bandages could be seen here through ages
gone, piled upon crushed hearts and broken bravery.
The combat of love never had the chance to kill
until it was sucked away, with humanity, in war’s slavery.
Some claim to still smell the wafting scent of gooseberry
cooked in a neighbour’s pastry and brought under moonlight.
I guess some scenes hold better lustre in memories
than those who were forced into them by reality’s harsh daylight.