First poem of BST

White light drifts across the heathland
An enigmatic star shines lonely
Clouds scutter their path westward
As a thousand soldiers march indifferent

Somewhere there will be sanctuary
A chance encounter may lead to venom
Treasured benevolence welcomes hope
Yet always, always there is sympathy

Nothing leads to nothingness
September skies are patterned perfect
Dancing nymphs await the pressing dawn
Thankless in their solitude.

RC 30-3-26