Warned me to ride clear of the tower
standing hard against the ridge
narrow eyes probably my grandmother's
Dismounted under a grand oak
No sign of hoof or foot
nor smoke rising from anywhere
only damp bark, moss and leaves
holding breath in shadow
Low cloud trekking over canopies
air thick with leaf rot
I search for ration, hand and brow sweat
boots sinking into loam
Last scrap of bannock praise be
Between my jaws now
teeth and tongue move to my relief
Hand on gourd what a morning
something touches the air
As if skating on the mist
Some predatory bird perhaps
or will it soon rain down
The spec i see as i turn my head
Thuds into my thoughts
through my skull
My body collapses
I feel the last of me expire
my eye focuses on the slit
Inside that white tower on the ridge
Where some lucky archer hoorahs
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