Ranger, Sir - Poem

A warrior in the darkest hours
Ranger, Sir

A Gentle wind, strokes his face
Softly lifts his wind swept hair
Off them kingly eyes
The nights grow colder
Summer nights now deny

On he journeys, forward
Over the sacred and forbidden lands
His faithful walking stick close to him
Growing old and weary beneath his hand

The winds they now breed colder
They screech, and fool and chase
He pulls his hooded friend closer
Sheltered from their rogue disgrace

His clothes are drained of colour
They are withered but well worn
His faithful walking boots grow shabby
In his providence to venture on

His sword taunting with murmur
Of battles yet unsought
Its silvery veins shriek a silent myth
Of lessons still not taught

His hands they are of tender age
Dreary, worn and battered
But here is where his wisdom lies
With his magick healing touch

His kindness and his courage
Shine through a royal valour
A warrior in the darkest hours
Persistent evil shall devour

His pledge it burdens on his chest
And one-day will succumb
Then a crown will shine with hope divine
For this Ranger, Strider, Aragorn

© 2002 J.L.Copestake

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